Sparks fly out
by Elesianne
Summary: Curufin is endlessly irritated by a young artist his mother is collaborating with, yet he finds himself drawn to her. Featured are heated discussions, many light-hearted Fëanorian family scenes and vaguely described art.
1. Unfavourable impressions

_**A/N:** This is my take on how Curufin met his canonical wife about whom we know very little, not even her name. I've called her Netyarë._

 _This is a slow burn of a love story, told mostly from Curufin's point of view. There are plenty of family scenes among the Fëanorians, as they turned out to be so fun to write. The choice of T rating applies to the last four chapters – most of this fic falls under K(+)._

Note on canon _: I'm going with the birth order of Fëanor's sons in the published Silmarillion, so Curufin is the fifth son, between Caranthir and the twins. He is young in this story, only recently come into adulthood. The twins are still children._

Note on names _: I use Quenya names here as in all my fics that take place in Aman. I choose to consistently use c (instead of k or a mix of c and k) for the voiceless velar plosive. Here's a reminder of those Quenya names that are used in this fic, with the spellings in which they appear: Fëanor=Fëanáro, Maedhros=Nelyafinwë/Maitimo, Maglor=Cáno/Macalaurë, Celegorm=Turcafinwë/Tyelcormo/Tyelco, Caranthir=Carnistir, Curufin=Curufinwë/Atarincë, and finally the twins: Amrod=Pityafinwë/Pityo/Ambarussa, Amras=Telufinwë/Telvo/Ambarto (called Ambarussa by his twin; the twins are collectively called the Ambarussar). I stuck to the mother-names of Curufin's brothers for the most part in order to not overcomplicate things, using father-names only in more formal conversation where I believe they would be preferred, in my headcanon at least._

 _ **Chapter 1 summary:** Curufinwë and Netyarë meet for the first time, and neither of them is very impressed with the other. We also get glimpses into life at Fëanáro and Nerdanel's home._

* * *

 **Chapter I / Unfavourable impressions**

On a mild spring evening all the sons of Fëanáro and Nerdanel who still reside at the family home have gathered to another family dinner. It is a tradition very dear to Nerdanel: after each member of the family during the day engages in their own work and goes about their own business, alone or with others, at night they convene to dine and spend some time together. Macalaurë and Carnistir, one married several years ago and the other recently, join in often but not always, with or without their wives.

Over the meal Nerdanel tells her husband and sons of a young artist called Netyarë whose acquaintance she has made recently. This young painter's frescoes have made quite an impression on Nerdanel, and she has asked Netyarë to collaborate with her in redecorating a council hall in Finwë's palace: Nerdanel will sculpt several large statues and Netyarë will paint a scene that will complement them.

'She is young – just a little bit older than you, Atarincë, I think, younger than Carnistir – but she has already won a reputation as a talented and hard-working artist. I see great things in store for her.'

'Certainly with your help in getting in to the right circles', mutters Curufinwë under his breath as he tries to covertly read the book he has propped on his lap. Maitimo, who is sitting next to him, kicks him in the ankle – for his words or for the book, Curufinwë doesn't know which.

Nerdanel chatters more about this new project of hers and others speak of what they are working on as well. Curufinwë is usually happy enough to talk about his work, but on this particular night he doesn't participate much in the conversation: his current project requires that he finishes reading this book, so he keeps stealing glances at it while he eats.

'Curufinwë!' Nerdanel's sharp voice makes Curufinwë instantly lift his gaze. His mother almost always calls him Atarincë, the name she gave him that is rarely used by others; when she calls him by his father-name he knows he's in trouble. 'Are you reading a book under the table again?'

'No, mother, I wouldn't do that at a family dinner.' Curufinwë tries to shift his book into the lap of Tyelcormo who sitting on his other side, in case Nerdanel makes him stand up to prove he's not lying, but Tyelcormo, the idiot, shoves it back with really quite unnecessary force. Curufinwë tries not to grimace at the twinge of pain on the side of his thigh.

Nerdanel narrows her eyes. 'Yet you have done it in the past, repeatedly I might add. And if I catch you doing it again, well, you will find that you are not too old to made to muck out the stables for a week as punishment for you discourtesy.' It does not sound entirely like a joke.

Curufinwë is about to open his mouth to remonstrate, or to appeal to his father, but thinks better of it. Objecting to the threat of punishment will not make him look less guilty. So he gives no reply and then makes a point of being relatively attentive for the rest of the meal – not too little to be suspected of reading again, but not so much that his earlier quietness would seem remarkable by comparison.

* * *

The morning that Netyarë is to meet Nerdanel at the older artist's studio, she is nervous almost to the point of feeling nauseous. She has met with Nerdanel many times now, and they have spent the last few days together at the palace council hall they will be redecorating: learning the space, taking measurements and making preliminary plans and sketches. Nerdanel has been wonderful, treating Netyarë as an equal, an artist in her own right, yet subtly teaching her many things at the same time.

But this is the first time Netyarë is going to Nerdanel's home, where her studio is located. And though Netyarë has been to many nobles' houses in the course of her work, she is still nervous in the opulent mansions of the high-born. Somehow King Finwë's palace is easier in spite of its splendour, as it feels like a place of office rather than anyone's home. But nobles' homes, however large and luxurious, are still homes, and she is always struck by the difference between them and her own home, her parents' comfortable but fairly modest house that has their shop in the front.

The daughter of merchants who specialise in high-quality paper, inks and paints, Netyarë sometimes feels like she was born with a paintbrush in hand, for she cannot remember a time when she did not yearn to reproduce the images that appear in her mind. All her life she has been striving to narrow the gap between what she sees in her mind's eye and what she can capture on a flat surface. After she discovered that her own medium – her passion, though it is often hard and even dirty work – is fresco painting, she has gained moderate success, doing several small assignments for the rich and powerful of Tirion.

Collaborating on a royal commission with Nerdanel, famous sculptor and wife of the king's influential eldest son, is the best thing that Netyarë could have hoped for at this stage of her career. Or rather it's more than she'd ever have dared to hope, and she is determined to make the most of it. She will work harder than ever and be on her best behaviour.

Netyarë checks her looks once more in the copper mirror above her dressing table, smooths her skirts and makes sure that she has in her satchel everything that she could possibly need, then sets out towards Fëanáro and Nerdanel's house.

* * *

As always when the twins' older brothers are recruited to teach them, studying soon turns to fraternal bickering. This time it is Curufinwë who has been enlisted to explain to the Ambarussar some finer points of mathematics that their tutor insists he is unable to make them understand.

'I'm not a professional teacher, I don't understand how I am expected to be any more successful in getting this through your thick skulls', complains Curufinwë to the little red-headed beasts who stare at him ever so innocently after making his life very unpleasant for the past few hours. 'You're not even trying, that's the problem. You can't be this bad with numbers. Even Cáno was able to learn this, and we all know he is hopeless at counting anything but music.'

'That's really not fair', protests Macalaurë from the armchair where he is absent-mindedly plucking at a lyre. He has sought refuge with his brothers after his wife drove him from their house so that he would not get in the way of their servants who are spring cleaning.

'It's very fair', says Maitimo who can't quite keep a grin off his face as he peruses a stack of documents at a side table. As usual, all the brothers in the house have gravitated to the same room. 'I had to tutor you, remember?'

'Well, at least I tried.' Macalaurë conjures a sad little song from his lyre while staring accusingly at his littlest brothers.

'We are trying!' protest the twins as one.

'And that is my cue to interrupt your study session', says Nerdanel smoothly as she sweeps into the room. 'Ambarussa, Ambarto, you promised me that you would behave with your brother who is spending his day helping you.'

'Not voluntarily', mutters Curufinwë as he tosses his quill aside.

Nerdanel chooses to not hear this. 'Time got away from me and I forgot to give orders for lunch, but I'm on my way to speak with the cook now. I would like the five of you to join me and Netyarë for lunch in the studio.' Nerdanel often takes her midday meal in her workroom. She has explained to her family that this helps her stay in the right state of mind for continuing her work.

Her sons agree to come, of course; they are used to being introduced to the various artists with whom their mother collaborates during her more sociable artistic periods, and besides, they are hungry.

'I'll ask for something simple, so it shouldn't take more than half an hour. Be good now, Pityo and Telvo.' A quick kiss on two red heads and a swish of skirts, and Nerdanel is gone.

'She's in a very good mood, planning must be going well', notes Maitimo who has laid aside his papers and given up the pretence of working.

'It'll be interesting to meet this young painter. I wonder if she is as highly artistic as some of the others', says Macalaurë thoughtfully, and they all know that by 'highly artistic' he means 'weird'. Their mother has worked together with some real eccentrics.

'I hope she's not as loud as that big man who did pictures out of wood', says Ambarussa – the one actually named Ambarussa.

At the mention of the woodcarver Macalaurë turns pale. He had suffered more than anyone else from the loud off-pitch singing that particular artist had engaged in while working.

'You don't live here anymore', Maitimo points out, and Macalaurë is visibly relieved by this reminder.

'So if she makes a terrible racket while working, you can just not visit here for a while', says Ambarto sulkily. 'But we have no choice, we have to tolerate whoever mother drags here.'

'But this lady artist is nice to look at, at least', says his twin comfortingly.

Curufinwë lets out a little snort. 'You're too young to know which women are nice to look at.'

'No we're not!' say the twins indignantly.

'We saw her when she came and she smiled at us. She has pretty eyes and a very nice smile', explains Ambarto.

'She's short, though. But that's not too bad', adds Ambarussa.

'Experts on ideals of female beauty, are you, at your tender age?' asks Macalaurë with his brows raised. The twins glower at him.

'If you two can be conquered with one smile from a woman, well, I can only pity you. And our parents', says Curufinwë. His little brothers are so wonderfully easy to rile up. 'Or is there something especially potent about this painter's smile?'

Maitimo is smiling at the twins too, but says, 'It is best not to gossip about someone while they are in the same house.'

So they return to their various pursuits, or at least pretend to, until the call for lunch comes.

* * *

During the battle of wills with his little brothers that their mother had referred to as a 'study session', Curufinwë had almost forgotten that the painter was coming to their house on this day. As he walks up the stairs to Nerdanel's studio with his brothers he avoids the instinct to place himself between Macalaurë and the twins; Maitimo is in the lead, and in Curufinwë's opinion nothing is more ridiculous than their band of brothers lining up in order of age as their parents like them to do.

Curufinwë reflects that he is not in a mood to socialise with a stranger and decides that he shall eat quickly and then try to make an early escape and retreat to the smithy before Nerdanel remembers that his tutoring of the twins is not finished.

Stepping into the studio behind his brothers, he breathes in the familiar smell that is a mix of clay and stone dust and home and brings back many memories, some of them earliest that he has, about this large room full of light and intriguing shapes. He sees Nerdanel's newest collaborator standing next to one such shape, admiring the near-finished sculpture.

His first impression of Netyarë is that she certainly doesn't look 'highly artistic'. Engaged in only planning work with Nerdanel on this day, she is not wearing any extraordinary artist's clothes but a fairly well-made if simple sky-blue dress, and her hair, of a slightly lighter brown than is common among the Noldor, is plaited into one wide braid that is tucked into a bun at her nape.

She looks respectable if not distinguished, and Curufinwë supposes he agrees with the Ambarussar's opinion that she is pretty. (He won't admit this to the little monsters, of course.) In fact, she looks so pretty and young and ordinary that in his current unfavourable mood he finds it hard to believe that she is an accomplished artist.

Nerdanel introduces her five present sons to the young woman, and Curufinwë watches Netyarë charm his two eldest brothers with a shy smile – nothing special there – and a few soft-spoken words. Then Nerdanel beckons Curufinwë forward – she is proceeding in order of age, why are their parents so obsessed with that? – and he resolves not to be won over as easily. He nods at Netyarë haughtily and does not return her smile.

Netyarë is a little taken aback at the cold greeting of the third son that Nerdanel introduces to her, after the first two were so amiable, but she tries to keep from appearing rattled. It is does not make her feel better to have to look up at him, for he is tall in addition to being dark, handsome and rude, but she refuses to look down as his mother tells her about him.

 _'_ This is my fifth son, Curufinwë Atarincë. He's not much here at the house – he spends so much time at the smithy that sometimes I think he's moved to live there.' Nerdanel smiles gently at Curufinwë. 'He's only here today because he agreed to teach these little rascals', and as she speaks Nerdanel pulls her youngest two to her side and squeezes them, to their great embarrassment. 'Who are called Pityafinwë Ambarussa and Telufinwë Ambarto, and they are very nice boys even if they cannot learn more advanced mathematics.'

'Don't worry if you can't tell them apart, very few people can', says the eldest son, red-headed like the twins, and very tall and smiling and relaxed as he leans against the doorframe.

'I have darker hair, and he is shorter', says one of the twins. Netyarë can't see the differences.

'I am not shorter than you', protests the other little redhead.

'You are very tall for your age, dear', says his mother soothingly, and beckons them all to sit down. 'Macalaurë, I hope your wife is well?' And skillfully Nerdanel guides the conversation, asking thoughtful questions and drawing attention to common interests while they eat the light repast Nerdanel's cook produced in a hurry.

Curufinwë observes that the young artist, who is indeed not 'highly artistic' but polite and sweet and appears interested even in the Ambarussar's childish stories, is quite a hit with his brothers, but this does nothing to endear her to him. He has always known, and indeed benefited from knowing, that these four brothers of his in particular have a good-natured side that is easily manipulated, and he can see that Netyarë is doing whatever she can to win them over. She does it differently than he would, and skillfully enough that they are fooled but inelegantly enough for Curufinwë to see through it.

He remains as haughty as he dares in the presence of his mother, and sticks to his plan to try to slip away quickly and inconspicuously. Let Maitimo, Macalaurë and the Ambarussar stay here and be twisted around the girl painter's little finger. He finds her irritating rather than charming, and also a little familiar-looking – has he seen her somewhere before?

Netyarë notices Curufinwë's quietness and his cold looks at her, but she is determined to not let one son's disapproval extinguish the exhilaration she feels because her work with Nerdanel has started very promisingly. She is relieved, though, when the haughty son is the first to leave.

* * *

Curufinwë returns from the smithy late at night, late enough to have a hope of getting to his room without encountering any family members. He does indeed manage to do just that, but as he is drying off after washing away the soot and sweat of a good day's work there is a knock on his door.

'Just a moment', he calls and scrambles into his night clothes, then goes to open the door.

'Hello, mother', he says sheepishly when he sees who it is. During the afternoon, as his bad mood and irritations had dissolved away while he hammered stubborn steel into the right shape, he had began to feel uneasy about the childish way he had sneaked away from lunch.

'Atarincë dear', she sighs and kisses him on the cheek as if to signal her forgiveness though he has not spoken words of apology. She sits on the edge of his bed, and he sits next to her. 'I hope you had a good day.'

'I did, I had some good progress. Mother, I am sorry for leaving your lunch so abruptly. And for not coming to dinner.' In general, apologies do not roll easily off his tongue, but it is easy to apologise to his mother when he knows he will be forgiven.

'I understand that you did not want to go back to teaching the Ambarussar, I know it is vexing work. But you were discourteous towards my guest by sneaking away.'

'I know. I will conduct myself more maturely in the future. I will try to, at least.'

His mother smiles at him fondly. 'That's all I can ask for, isn't it?'

'And I will take up the twins' lesson again. I've had an idea for a new approach.' He does not tell Nerdanel that the idea he had in the dim heat of the forge includes what could be called bribery, or possibly blackmail.

'I'm glad to hear it. What did you think of my new associate, then?' She watches his face closely.

'She's very charming.' It is not a lie, even if Netyarë's charm had not worked on him. 'And she looks vaguely familiar. I feel like I've seen her before.' Frowning, Curufinwë tries to figure out where.

'Her parents own a shop that sells inks, parchment and such, the one north of the marketplace. Have you bought something from there?'

'I think so. Does she work there, then, in addition to doing her frescoes?'

'Not anymore, now that her painting career has taken off, but I understand that she used to.'

Nerdanel does not seem to care that her new protégé comes from a very different class of people than their family, but Curufinwë thinks of how it is quite a step up for Netyarë to go from selling her parents' wares to decorating King Finwë's council hall with the king's daughter-in-law.

Nerdanel bids Curufinwë a fond good-night, and he goes to bed and tries to go to sleep but finds his mind restless in spite of his body's tiredness after a long day. Very annoyingly his errant thoughts keep circling back to the young painter and her smile that, Curufinwë had discovered during the lunch, indeed had something especially potent about it, a radiant warmth that even he could feel though he did not want to.

He tosses his covers aside and concentrates on pondering a thorny crafting problem that has been plaguing him for weeks, and somehow that is an easier thought to fall asleep on.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** I promise that Curufinwë won't be as much of a snob in later chapters. Well, not in all of them. It takes him a while to get over himself, but luckily Netyarë will eventually help him along with a few sharp words._


	2. Family dinners

_**Chapter 2 summary:**_ _Curufinwë suffers irritation and dinners with his family._

 _ **Chapter notes:**_ _Not all that much happens in this shorter chapter, but I found I really enjoy writing about Curufin among his family members, so here we are._

* * *

 **Chapter II / Family dinners**

After Netyarë's first visit to Nerdanel's studio it seems to Curufinwë that the painter is at his home constantly. She often arrives in the morning just as he is heading out, and although he does not feel obliged to stop and speak with her, her cheerful greeting first thing in the morning always irritates him. There is something about her that just gets under his skin and makes him uncomfortable. He doesn't understand it, and that makes it worse.

And on many days she is still there when he returns in the evening though he often works late himself. One night the tight control Curufinwë has imposed on himself snaps and he practically snarls at the maidservant who upon asking informs him that yes, the painter is still in the studio with his mother. Curufinwë stalks in the shadows of the corridor outside the studio until Netyarë leaves, then goes in to ask Nerdanel why her collaborator is still coming here; isn't she supposed to be working at the palace by now, since she will paint her pictures directly on the wall?

'We're experimenting on painting the statues too, in light colours that reflect the tones on the walls. Netyarë is teaching me, helping me improve my brushwork so I can paint the statues myself while she does the frescoes.' Nerdanel glances at her impatient-looking son as she rinses paintbrushes. 'This is a big project. Planning alone takes a long time, but I expect she will move to work at the palace soon.'

Curufinwë just grunts like an animal, or Carnistir at his grumpiest.

'You are working on a big project yourself, aren't you? You've missed a lot of dinners lately; I've talked about my work then.' Nerdanel's voice is only lightly reproachful, for she is wise enough to know that if she tries to control her grown sons too tightly they will only flee from her.

'My project is not going very well, and I haven't been feeling sociable.' His mother's gentle attention has made the knots inside him become unwound so that he is able to share of himself. It is true that he has been struggling with his work, even though it is not the only reason he is feeling tense.

'You'll work it out soon, I'm sure.' His mother lays a hand on his shoulder for a moment. 'And then you'll feel less troubled.'

Curufinwë should have known that his mother would see that there was something bothering him, but he is relieved that she has not recognised the other reason for his uneasiness. He fervently hopes that no one will notice that to him, the young painter is more distracting than the pitchy woodcarver who sang terribly all the while he worked in Nerdanel's studio.

* * *

A week later, Curufinwë has not yet solved the problems with his work and comes home in a foul mood after a long and frustrating day at the forge – one of those days where nothing seems to go right and the more exasperated one becomes, the more wrong everything goes. He mumbles a greeting to the various family members he finds lounging in the entrance hall, but his mood is not improved by this reminder that they have a grand family dinner planned for this night, Macalaurë and Carnistir coming with their wives in addition to those who live in this house.

Curufinwë continues to his room to change for dinner, and as he walks past his parents' bedchamber, he hears two female voices through the open doorway.

'Thank you, Nerdanel, with this shawl of yours I will be just about presentable.' It's the annoying painter girl's voice.

 _Oh no, what is she doing here again?_ Curufinwë stops and listens where he can't be seen from the room.

'You're very welcome, and actually, you are welcome to keep the shawl. I got it as a present, and that colour never suited me. But it looks lovely on you.'

Curufinwë rolls his eyes as he listens to Netyarë first demurring, making polite objections to the gift, and then graciously accepting it. Then he has to make a hasty escape when he hears the women's footsteps coming towards the door.

He goes back to the hall where, he now observes, are already gathered Macalaurë and his wife as well as Tyelcormo and his huge hound. Tyelcormo has been forbidden to bring Huan into the house but he does it anyway; at the moment, he appears to be talking to the beast.

'Why is she here again?' Curufinwë hisses to his brothers.

'What, who?' Macalaurë lifts his gaze from the parchment he's scribbling on. 'The painter?'

'Yes, the painter. The extremely irritating painter who is constantly hounding our home these days.'

'I think she's rather sweet', says Tinweriel, Macalaurë's wife, who is reclining on a divan, her fingers on the strings of the small lyre on her lap but not playing it.

Curufinwë snorts. Everyone except he thinks Netyarë very sweet.

Macalaurë looks at Curufinwë in that way of his that all his brothers hate, head tilted a little, eyes mild but curious, seeing far too much of whoever he is looking at. 'She's been working with mother again and she's staying for dinner, I heard mother invite her earlier.'

'Perfect.' Curufinwë almost snorts again, then remembers how undignified it is and just storms off to his room.

As he washes and changes for dinner he thinks that Netyarë is not a guest that deserves him coming to dinner in anything better than his soot-encrusted work clothes, but his mother would be cross if he did that. She always insists that her family make an effort when they dine together. He tells himself that he pays special attention to his appearance just because Macalaurë and Carnistir's wives will be there, and it is in his best interests to appear respectful, even amiable, towards them. It is such an easy way to score points with his brothers.

Curufinwë tarries in his room as long he dares, unwilling to go socialise and make nice with everyone as he knows he would have to do if he joined them. He has been taciturn so often lately that more and more members of his family are starting to wonder if there is something bothering him, since he is not unsociable by nature like Carnistir who is perfectly happy to spend a night sulking alone in a corner, or Tyelcormo who likes animals as much as people and feels no compunction at talking to his dog rather than his family members.

So eventually Curufinwë fixes a neutral expression on his face and goes to join his family and Netyarë after taking one last glance in the mirror to make sure his hair is neat and his circlet on straight.

He is not the last to arrive, though; Carnistir and Tuilindien take so long to turn up that Nerdanel decides that they will go into the dining room without them. When the recently wed couple finally arrives, they are ever so slightly dishevelled and a little flushed – or rather, Tuilindien is a little flushed and Carnistir is almost bright red, especially after Tyelcormo smirks at him.

Fëanáro casts a censorious look at Tyelcormo while Nerdanel pretends not to notice anything unusual and does not even remark upon the couple's late arrival. Instead, she draws them into a conversation about their new house that is just about to be finished and chats with them amiably until Tuilindien's shyness and Carnistir's discomfiture have been worn away.

'It's odd to have so many women at a family dinner, isn't it?' Tyelcormo has been forced to take his hound out to the kennel, so he is now talking to Curufinwë instead while the twins across the table compete on which one of them manages to smuggle more of their peas into Tyelcormo's plate.

Curufinwë looks around the table: Tinweriel, Tuilindien, Netyarë, and Nerdanel of course. 'It is a little strange', he replies. For so many years it was always just Nerdanel and Fëanáro and an increasing number of sons at their family dinners. 'Of course, not everyone here is family', Curufinwë adds and looks with barely veiled contempt at the intruder at their family meal.

The painter doesn't notice his venomous gaze, as she is engaged in a lively conversation with Maitimo, Macalaurë and Tinweriel. She has done her best to neaten herself for dinner, but she had come here dressed for work, so she is not as well turned out as the rest of them. Her dress today is not covered in paint splatters as it is on some days, but it is plain. She is wearing over it a pretty pink shawl that must have been the topic of her and Nerdanel's discussion that Curufinwë had overheard.

Curufinwë has an excellent eye for colour and he must concede that his mother was right about the shawl: the colour is quite flattering on Netyarë whereas on Nerdanel it had been in horrible discord with her ruddy skin and auburn hair. And the painter has made an effort with her hair for the dinner: instead of the usual long braid down her back, she has plaited her brown locks into a fairly intricate arrangement around her head.

But while Curufinwë approves of her looks, he does not approve of her presence at this dinner, or at the many other dinners and parties where Nerdanel invites Netyarë in the following weeks. He begins to feel like he cannot go more than a few days without seeing her, either at their house working with his mother or at a social event, and every time it is more of an effort to keep himself civil.

* * *

One night at dinner where thankfully only members of the family are present, Nerdanel mentions that her abstract sculptures have encouraged Netyarë to experiment with more abstract art herself. Nerdanel is quite flattered and delighted by this, and she is encouraging the young painter in her experiments.

Curufinwë does find his mother's stranger works quite fascinating but nevertheless thinks it one step of encouragement too far when Nerdanel mentions that she has commissioned Netyarë to paint a full wall-sized fresco in her studio after they finish their work in the palace. Nerdanel has so far kept her studio very bare of decorations, because she does not want her sculptures to be influenced by shapes she sees around her when she works, but apparently an abstract wall-painting is fine.

Curufinwë mentions his misgivings about the commission – that Nerdanel may soon become bored by the image that is constantly in her sight as she works, and the distraction of the fresco being painted – but his mother just laughs and says that it will be nice to have company in her studio for a while, and if she gets bored by the painting, well, then she can commission another one or cover it with a sheet.

Nerdanel does not seem to mind Curufinwë's airing of his objections, but Fëanáro looks sternly at his favourite son and says, 'Your mother knows her own mind, you should know that, Curufinwë.' From Fëanáro, it's a very mild reproof, but it is one anyway.

From then on Curufinwë stays silent about his dislike of Netyarë's frequent presence in the house.

He doesn't know why her presence irritates him so much, or why, after Netyarë has moved to work at the palace, even listening to Nerdanel talking about her chafes him. Not understanding his own reactions is disconcerting: he is used to being a strong-willed person in control of situations around him as well as himself, and this is something he seems to have no control over.

He fervently wishes that his mother will get this collaboration ready and over with soon, so that he can have some peace and his powers of concentration back.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _I got the idea that Netyarë would be inspired by Nerdanel to experiment with more abstract, 'modern' art from Tolkien's description that Nerdanel sculpted statues that were extremely lifelike but also ones that were 'wrought - of her own thought in shapes strong and strange but beautiful' (HoME X, part 3:5)._

 _There will be much more interaction between Curufinwë and Netyarë in the next chapter._


	3. Judgements of character

_**Chapter summary:**_ _Curufinwë loses control of his temper and unleashes his calculated cruelty, but the end result is not what he expected._

* * *

 **Chapter III / Judgements of character**

Curufinwë is passing his time at a particularly dull high-society party talking with Tyelcormo and a stone-carver friend of theirs. The party is supposed to be a musical soiree, but the music is no more remarkable than what Curufinwë has heard at home. And not even from Macalaurë, but from Maitimo, whose sonorous low voice is vastly more pleasant than this singer's high-pitched keening. In fact, Macalaurë had predicted the poor quality of tonight's musical entertainment and refused to come at all.

It seems that many agree with Macalaurë and Curufinwë on the music, for few party guests look like they are concentrating on listening. Most are talking, passing from one group of influential people to another in a complicated dance where the steps are gossip and scheming and promises that are never intended to be kept, and perhaps the forging of a few earnest alliances too. In Curufinwë's opinion, this dance, this weaving of words and wielding of influence, is the true reason for ostentatious gatherings like this one.

Maitimo, always the most diplomatic of Fëanáro's sons, has approached this soiree as he does all gatherings – as an opportunity to do his part in maintaining good relations and repairing those their father has damaged in his feistiness. So he is moving about the room, greeting friends and allies and keeping an eye on those who are... less friendly to Fëanáro's house, as Maitimo would tactfully call them.

Carnistir has not shown up, to no one's surprise. Even though he has become slightly more gregarious after marrying his gentle sweetheart, he still prefers his own company, or that of close friends and family, to having to make polite conversation among polite society. And the Ambarussar have been left at home: after several parties where they expressed their boredom by pulling pranks on the most venerable personages present, Nerdanel decided that they would only be brought along on the most important occasions until they grew older and wiser, or at least less prone to practical jokes.

Tyelcormo, hankering for the woods and hunting fields after staying for a long time in Tirion, complains that his new formal robes itch. Curufinwë tells him, quite affably, to keep drinking at the pace he has been and soon he won't feel a thing. Tyelcormo snarls at him, looking genuinely miserable, and Curufinwë takes pity on him for Tyelco is after all his least annoying brother, inexplicable fascination with muddy activities aside. So to distract Tyelcormo from his discomfort Curufinwë asks him about the young hunting dogs he is training at the moment.

As Curufinwë chats with his brother and friend he keeps an eye on the petite brown-haired girl who has been spending the night talking to one prominent noble after another. Nerdanel was by Netyarë's side early on in the evening but soon found that her protégé has now, after being brought along to a few parties, learnt to manage herself quite well. Curufinwë watches from afar as Netyarë wields her bright smile and honeyed words among the lords of the Noldor, and he feels the restlessness creeping in that her presence always provokes in him.

* * *

When he happens upon her later in a quiet corridor that is a shortcut between various reception rooms of this mansion, he cannot resist striking up a conversation where there are few people to overhear.

He calls her name in greeting and leans against the corridor wall, blocking most of the narrow passage, as she turns towards him. She looks surprised that he appears to wish to converse with her when before he has shown no inclination to have anything more to do with her than he has absolutely had to.

'My lord Curufinwë. How is your evening going?' She greets him amiably but her grey eyes are watchful.

'I saw you were talking to Lord Cammíron.'

He sees a flicker in her eyes as she begins to suspect from his icy tone and his ignoring of her polite enquiry that his intention is not for them to engage in small talk, but something quite different. Speaking carefully, she replies, 'Yes, I was. He is building a new villa for his family in the countryside and might be interested in commissioning some frescoes.'

'How fortuitous for you that you were able to discuss with him and promote yourself here at the party instead of having to beg for an audience like other artists.'

He chooses his words to hurt and to get a reaction out of her, but she surprises and impresses him. For she doesn't say a word, just tilts her head a little and looks at him like she's daring him to say more.

Well, he'd been planning to, anyway.

'So, tell me, Netyarë.' He crosses his arms on his chest. 'Are you ingratiating yourself with my family just to improve your reputation by associating with the very top of Tirion society, or are you perhaps also hoping to land yourself a royal prince of the Noldor for a husband?'

She still has her head a little tilted to one side as she takes in his intrusive, impudent questions. It irritates him inexplicably much, so he keeps going, looking for cruel, sharp words that will shatter her infuriating equanimity.

'It's a pity you didn't sidle into my mother's favour a little earlier, before two of my brothers married. There would have been two good possible marks then. Macalaurë's always been a soft touch, and Carnistir is easy to manipulate. Now it's just Maitimo and Tyelco who are left of marriageable age, and, well, Maitimo is too preoccupied with his responsibilities to notice much else going on around him, and Tyelco is more interested in rambling in the woods and then dragging in mud than in looking at women.'

She listens with remarkable patience but her eyes are as flint-hard as he knows his to be when he talks like this. Finally, she replies, not as angry as he wants her to be. Not as angry as he is.

'I have spent time at your family's house because I am working together with your mother on a project – by her request; I did not seek her out – and she has kindly invited me to do also my own planning work at her studio, as she knows it is much better workspace than what I could have elsewhere. I am not looking for a husband, only to create art.'

As she speaks Curufinwë slowly realises that she is in fact very angry in spite of her voice that she keeps even and low. Her anger appears to be the same kind as his own, cold and controlled, unlike Carnistir and Tyelcormo's, whose fury is red-hot and explosive.

'I understand that you would not value my talents very highly; after all I am only very little older than you and of lesser birth', and she is not quite able to keep her contempt for his snobbery out of her voice, 'but do you not respect your mother's judgement of artistic value, and her judgement of character, enough to believe that she would not choose me as a collaborator if she did not believe me worthy of working with her?'

Curufinwë can feel the colour rising to his cheeks and curses inwardly – has he turned into Carnistir all of a sudden, and why did it have to happen with her of all people? – and curses more when he cannot think of a strong rejoinder.

The best he can come up with is, 'If you only seek co-operation between artists, why are you here?' He casts a significant glance at her fine dress, very different from the simple clothes and paint-splattered aprons she wears when working. 'Why are you suddenly turning up at almost every social function my family attends, and at our family dinners, too?'

She raises her chin, still defiant; but then he had not expected her to be discomfited by his new question which, even though it brings forward a good argument, did nothing to answer _her_ last very good question.

'Your family is full of smart, interesting people, and I enjoy conversing with them – well, most of them.' She casts such a scathing look at him that even amidst his anger he almost wants to applaud her. He could not have done better himself.

'As for the social functions, I am indeed here to associate with the most rich and powerful of our people, so that they hear of my work and will possibly commission me. I know very well that I would not have access to these kinds of gatherings had I not become close with your mother. But knowing that does not mean that I will pass up the opportunity to obtain contacts and commissions that I need in order to practise and develop my talents and further my career. This really should not be hard for you to understand; I know that you are also very ambitious and always looking to advance your skills and reputation in any way you can.'

Curufinwë knows he is being thoroughly trounced at this conversation, but it is not his custom to interrupt others – he usually has no need to – and he is not certain of what to say anyway, so he lets Netyarë finish her evisceration of his arguments. She has proven far sharper and more resilient than he had expected.

But she is almost done now, adding only, 'I have not come to a single event where your mother has not invited me, and I do not beg her for the invitations; it is her choice to include me. She chooses to do it to help me.'

'She has taken you under her wing', he mutters, all fury and fight out of him now and a vague sense of shame setting in instead. 'She does that to young artists sometimes.'

'So why are you so incensed, if I am not even the first? No, don't answer that, I think you've insulted me quite enough for one night.' Now Netyarë avoids looking at Curufinwë, and he can tell that his words have hurt her after all, but he finds he is not pleased by it though it was his goal all along. He stays silent as she told him to, and after a deep breath she speaks again.

'Nerdanel has been very kind to me and her attention and cooperation will undoubtedly further my career. But she really is a brilliant artist in addition to being well-connected, so I am gladly taking all help that she offers me. And as I said, I really do not see how you would have any right to think me reprehensible for doing so.'

Netyarë takes a few steps away from him and smooths her skirts, very swiftly, and while he is still trying to come up with something that would simultaneously salvage his pride and not insult her – he realises now that that is the cheapest way, the wrong way to go about things – she says, with the dignity of a great queen but without looking at him, 'Good night, Curufinwë. We will undoubtedly see each other again soon; I hope you will be able to bear it.'

She walks away, her small form straight and proud, and as she brushes past him, he is surrounded by her scent – lemons and strawberries, sharp and sweet at the same time – and it drives off any ideas he might have had for last words.


	4. Sharp and sweet

_**Chapter summary:** Curufinwë and Netyarë begin to find a way to deal with each other._

* * *

 **Chapter IV / Sharp and sweet**

Soon after their conversation that started with Curufinwë's cruel words and ended with Netyarë's dignified exit she moves to work at Finwë's palace, coming only rarely to Nerdanel's studio. She attends fewer social events too, probably because she is working long days, so for a long time Curufinwë sees hardly even glimpses of her.

But every time Nerdanel speaks with enthusiasm about the redecoration project that is, according to her, going very well – 'I think your father will be very pleased, Fëanáro' – Curufinwë thinks of lemons and strawberries and how he had hurt Netyarë and found out too late that it wasn't what he wanted.

Curufinwë does not spend much time at his grandfather's palace as he does not care for court life. There is a fire in him driving him to create things and to learn more of his father's craft, and while he quite enjoys gathering and exerting power over people, well, there will be time enough for that later. For now he'll leave it to Maitimo to do that for their family in his more forthright and magnanimous way.

But Finwë makes a point of spending some time with each of his grandchildren, and whenever Curufinwë is summoned to the palace he goes willingly. He does not know if his love and respect for his grandfather are his own or instilled in him by Fëanáro, but he is glad to get along well with Finwë in any case.

As he walks through the palace to return home after dining with his grandfather, he finds himself heading for the council hall that is his mother and Netyarë's current project. After a second's hesitation at the door he steps in.

The large room is still and quiet at the late hour, and a little eerie in its emptiness. The only furniture is a narrow table on which are neatly lined up Netyarë's tools of trade: brushes, pigments, plastering tools, various bowls and rags. On the floor are buckets of quicklime, sand and already prepared plaster. Scaffolding is set against the wall where Netyarë is currently working on a section high up, near the ceiling.

There is also a stack of sketches and compositional drawings on the table, and Curufinwë browses through these. From his mother's explanations he already knows what the end result is intended to be – a scene at Lake Cuiviénen – but he sees it here for the first time, outlined in full in a large watercolour as well as broken into detailed drawings of the smaller sections that form a day's work for the fresco painter. Curufinwë recognises his mother's hand in some details, but most of the bold strokes must be Netyarë's.

When the council hall is finished, Netyarë's frescoes will show the lake and the surrounding woods and mountains as well as the brilliant stars above, the sky encompassing the highest parts of the walls as well as the domed ceiling. Nerdanel's statues will be the newly awakened elves, standing in pairs, gazing and pointing in awe at the light-speckled sky above them. Curufinwë sets the papers carefully back on the table just as they had been and goes to look at the walls.

Netyarë has already finished the sections that show the gentle waves of the lake reflecting the starlight. Curufinwë runs his hand on the wall that holds in itself Netyarë's art: it is smooth to the touch and the stars shine so bright on the dark water that it feels like they should burn his fingers. He is certain that when the room is finished, everyone who stands here will be awed by the power and pull of starlight amongst darkness just as the first elves were.

He admires the scene for a moment longer, then leaves after making sure has not left any sign of his visit.

* * *

One day soon after his furtive visit to the council hall Curufinwë comes home from the smithy very late, having missed dinner again, and runs into Netyarë – quite literally walks into her as he steps around a corner into a corridor.

'Oh!' Netyarë stumbles, then scrambles to keep hold of the rolled-up papers she is carrying. Curufinwë takes hold of her arms to steady her, but this makes her flinch and she ends up dropping her papers anyway. Curufinwë bends down quickly to pick them up even while he mumbles an incoherent apology, as disoriented as she is.

'It's all right, they're just pencil sketches and notes from my meeting with your mother, they won't be damaged', she tells him as she accepts the bundles he offers back to her.

'I meant – I hope I didn't hurt you.'

'No, I don't think so', Netyarë says but looks a little doubtful of her own words as she rubs her left shoulder.

'I'm sorry', he repeats, and then, because he is already feeling like an idiot so why not go for more, 'Would you talk with me for a moment? I need to say something.'

She looks even more sceptical now, and suspicious of his politeness, but comes with him when he bids her to follow him to an empty sitting room. At his request, she sits down and then follows him with a disquieted gaze as he paces back and forth in front of her.

'So what was it that you wished to –', she says at the same moment when he finally gets out the words, 'I wanted to say I'm sorry –'.

Both stop talking at the same time just as they had began and for a moment just stare at each other, Netyarë surprised and Curufinwë awkward. Then she beckons to the spot next to her on the long settee, bidding him to take a seat.

Taking heart from her being at least willing to have him near her, Curufinwë sits down and begins again.

'I am sorry for how I behaved when we last talked.' It is a hard thing for him to say, and he digs his fingernails into his palms as he speaks, to the point of sharp pain. 'I have realised – actually realised already during our conversation – that I had misjudged your character and intentions.' Having said the hardest part he dares to take a quick glance at her and finds her looking grave, a shadow of the pain he had caused in her eyes.

'I am sorry I hurt you', he adds as earnestly as he ever says anything.

But apparently he does not manage to communicate his sincerity very well, for she asks, 'Did your mother tell you to apologise?'

'What – no! As far as I know my mother does not know of our conversation at the party.' He looks at her piercingly. 'Did you tell her?' He thinks not, for surely Nerdanel would have lambasted him for it by now.

'No, I thought it best to keep it between the two of us.' As he looks at her in gratitude and respect he sees her inner fire slowly blazing up again, banishing shadows. She adds, a challenge in her steady gaze, 'I would not cause her grief by letting her know how atrociously she failed in raising you to have any manners.'

She is testing how he will react. He finds himself as much amused as angered by her words, so he smiles wolfishly. 'That is admirably solicitous of you, and I quite agree with your concern. However, I feel that I must warn you.'

'Of what, my lord?' She has not used the honorific after he first spoke callous words to her, and he knows that her use of it now is hardly a sign of respect.

'That even though I am sorry for how I spoke you the last time, I still find it very difficult to remain civil with you, especially when you speak rude truths.'

She smiles at his very intentional admission that he indeed does not have any manners. 'I can understand your difficulty very well, as I also find myself speaking considerably less civilly with you than with anyone else – thus the rude truths.'

Since she is perfectly composed and even a little playful now, her own charming self, he finds himself itching to shatter, or at least shake, that composure, though not as viciously as before. 'There is just something about you that I find endlessly irritating.'

She just smiles broader. 'I haven't even said yet if I accept your apology, and here you are being rude again.'

'But not cruel. I will not be cruel to you again, that I promise.'

This time his attempt to let her see his sincerity is more successful, for her gaze softens and she says, 'Then you are forgiven, and we need not speak any more of our previous conversation.' Then her playfulness emerges again. 'Just tell me one thing. Last time we spoke you accused me of having evil plans of tricking one of your family into marrying me, and you mentioned only Nelyafinwë and Turcafinwë as possible victims – you left yourself out of the list. I wonder why.'

He laughs, genuinely amazed at the question. 'You have not made any effort to endear yourself to me.'

'I have not done anything in particular to endear myself to your brothers, either. I'm as friendly to everyone.'

He thinks to himself, _So 'friendly' is what you call your masterful use of your natural charisma,_ but out loud he says, 'I made my distaste for you clear from the start. You're perceptive enough to notice.'

'Perhaps I like a challenge.' There's a wicked glint in her eyes now, and for a chilling moment he thinks she's serious. Then she smiles, and the wickedness melts away into warmth and light. 'Actually, I do prefer challenges to overly easy tasks, but I'm not that much of a masochist.'

There is no reason why he should be hurt by her playful remark, but he is, and opens his mouth to ask, _Are you implying that only a masochist would marry me_ , but realises just in time that saying that would be playing right into her hand. And he's done quite enough of that.

But he finds that he is not impervious to her radiant smile which she had not really directed at him before. For a moment, its summer-warmth cuts through his coldness and sarcasm and disarms him of all his weapons, his words and his reason. He is seized by an unwelcome desire to move closer to her, to touch her mouth and see if it is as warm as the smile, to find out if her skin is as hot as his is at this moment. He very much doubts this reaction is what she intended to cause in him.

And Curufinwë doesn't act on the odd desire, of course. Instead, he concentrates on regaining control of his body and his senses and their conversation, and looks for something suitably rude to say to restore the balance between them.

'Everyone thinks you are so very sweet. But you're not sweet at all.'

'Oh, but I am.' She flashes him her smile again, and while he is well aware that she can twist most people around her little finger with that smile, it cannot possibly make everyone feel as uncomfortable and heated as he is feeling now. Her mouth is wide and generous, her lips a deep pink, and again he has to force himself to tear his eyes away from them.

'Your civility really doesn't last long at a time, does it?' Netyarë asks, but she still looks cheerful, as if this barbed conversation suits her just fine, and he cannot deny that he is enjoying it, too, in spite of the physical discomfort.

She continues, 'I am actually quite sweet; it's just not all that I am.'

'You use your sweetness to get what you want.'

'Sometimes, yes. Do you think it is worse than you using carefully chosen cruel words to get what you want?'

'It is more dishonest.'

'Is it?' She considers it. 'I do not think so, for I believe that you are sometimes purposefully cruel when it is a good means to an end, even though you do not feel much animosity.'

How can she know him so well after such a short acquaintance? It would be the most infuriating thing he has ever experienced if he didn't also feel like he can see through her like few others can. He tells himself that it is that interesting sense of fragile equilibrium that makes him want to talk to her again; it is interesting because the balance between them might tilt one way or the other at any moment.

Like her, he enjoys challenges.

* * *

A long time goes by again before they next see each other. When they do, it is once Nerdanel and Netyarë's council hall project is finished and Finwë hosts a celebration there in honour of the artists. To allow the guests admire the art, the room is still empty of furniture aside from a few long tables where wine and food are served. Musical entertainment is provided by Macalaurë, Tinweriel and their musician friends. The king and his guests are highly complimentary of the lake scene and the starry dome, and Netyarë is surrounded by admirers.

Curufinwë watches her through the crowd. He finds that he is happy for her success, and quite enjoys seeing her smile all night, a little flushed and flustered, surrounded by the enchanting lakeside that she herself created as Nerdanel's graceful statues around her gaze into the star-filled sky at the ceiling.

Before he leaves the celebration with Tyelcormo who wants to continue the night in a less formal environment, Curufinwë goes to say a few words to Netyarë. He gets through the crowd easily enough, his natural arrogance and frosty stare making people give way to him as usual.

When Netyarë notices him approaching her, she turns to him and he is glad to see that the shine of her eyes does not diminish when she sees him.

'My brute of a brother is insisting that we depart, but I wanted to congratulate you first.' Curufinwë looks around the room, every wall of which is covered in her frescoes, and up at the ceiling she painted, too. 'Your art gives us in this room a taste of the wonder the first elves felt at seeing the world for the first time. It is brilliant work.'

Netyarë had not expected unqualified praise from him, and it makes her feel even more lightheaded than she already was from all the attention and the expensive wine that has been served tonight. 'Thank you, Curufinwë, for your kind words.'

'It's not kindness, you know that is not a habit of mine', he says brusquely. 'I see now that you are just as talented as my mother has been telling everyone, and I will give credit where it is due.'

'I nevertheless thank you', she says sweetly, but her smile is nowhere to be seen now, and he wonders why. She has smiled at him when they trade insults, why not now that he is complimenting her?

'I expect you'll be coming to our house next, to do the mural for mother's studio.'

'Yes, I start tomorrow.'

'So soon?'

Now she gives him a little smile. 'It's been four days since I finished here, and I want to get back to work again. I have many ideas and, well, my fingers begin to itch when I go days without painting.'

'Yes, of course.' He understands her perfectly and marvels at their similarity. He knows very well the burning need to get back to work after even a short break, to turn ideas into concrete objects that one can hold in one's hands. Or in her case, turn the images in her mind into colour and shapes visible to all eyes.

'I should perhaps tell you – I will be spending a lot of time at your family's house, because in addition to painting the mural in the studio your mother has asked me to model for a sculpture.'

Curufinwë is not surprised. Nerdanel is always looking for models for her works, as she does not like to use the same face or body twice. Curufinwë and all his brothers have modelled at some point, as have most family friends and relatives.

'Is it for the series of statues of young women meant to represent different times of the year?' Nerdanel has been speaking of that project to her family lately.

Netyarë nods. 'She wants me to be early spring.'

 _Crisp and fresh with a promise of warmth_ , Curufinwë thinks. Nerdanel has a knack for choosing the perfect models for her allegorical sculptures. To Netyarë he says as he takes his leave, 'I'll be seeing you around then', and if he does not let much pleasure into his voice, there is no displeasure there either.

Her presence does not chafe anymore.


	5. Taking the right steps

_**Chapter summary:** Curufinwë keeps his promise of not being cruel, he and Netyarë continue their barbed yet cordial conversations, and Fëanáro talks to his son in an unexpected way._

* * *

 **Chapter V / Taking the right steps**

Another evening, another formal party Fëanáro's sons have to attend because of their position in Noldor society. This time both of the married brothers are present. Carnistir appears to be glued to his wife as usual these days; when he is accompanied by her, he is far less surly than he used to be at events like this. Macalaurë and his lady have joined other musicians, he on harp and she on flute, and later in the evening they begin to perform songs meant for dancing.

Curufinwë spends some of the evening at his father's side, some with his brothers, some seeking the company of the few truly interesting people who attend these sorts of functions. He rarely joins in with any singing but during the last few years has found, rather to his surprise, that he enjoys dancing, or the dances with precisely designated, crisply executed steps at least. Free-flowing, improvised ones are not his forte, so he skips them altogether. And he only dances with sensible partners, for nothing ruins an evening like a stupidly tittering maiden in one's arms.

He has just narrowly, and slightly discourteously, avoided being paired with one such silly girl for the night's third dance when he sees out of the corner of his eye a familiar figure rushing past him. He turns to look and sees Netyarë leaving the room so fast as to be fleeing; she looks upset. Before he can think why he would do such a thing Curufinwë is going after her, at a less conspicuously hurried pace but keeping her in his sights.

She flees – for that is clearly what she is doing, dashing past everyone, eyes cast down – towards the garden, and past the people gathered near the doors, to where high rose bushes create secluded sections in which little fountains sing and elegant statues reach for the skies. Curufinwë stays in shadows as best he can until he finally reaches Netyarë in a quiet corner. She has taken a seat on a marble bench and sits very still with her hands on her knees, looking like she's concentrating on not crying.

Stepping close to her, Curufinwë asks, 'What's wrong?'

He must have succeeded at staying stealthy, or she is too upset to be observant, for she startles at his words and presence, raising a hand to her heart.

'Lord Curufinwë. What are you doing here? If you have come to mock me I fear I have no spirited counterarguments to make at this moment.'

He sits down next to her. Why is he here, indeed? He doesn't know. 'I'm not here to mock you.'

She makes a sound that probably tries to be a little laugh but comes out more like a choked sob.

'Did – did someone else mock you?'

'No.' Netyarë blinks rapidly and drives away the tears that had threatened to fall. 'You are the only noble who has reminded me of my humble background. Others are polite enough to talk of it behind my back, I expect.'

Curufinwë is still ashamed of himself for his earlier behaviour, and irrationally angry with her for making him feel shame and other things besides. But he is determined to keep the anger under control and to not hurt her anymore. He says in a low voice that he tries to keep from becoming a growl, 'I apologised to you.'

'So you did, and I accepted your apology. Please forgive me for mentioning it.' Netyarë fiddles with the long sleeve of her light pink gown for a moment. 'It is very silly, really, getting teary-eyed and running away like I did. It will not improve my reputation.'

'I don't think very many people noticed', he says, not very convincingly.

'Come now, Curufinwë. You are a much better liar than that.' She almost manages a pale smile, and so does he.

'Why did you do it, then?' He, too, slips back to the extreme directness that they have discovered is for the two of them the best way to deal with each other.

'I didn't know the steps to this last dance.' A mocking smile appears which he has only seen directed at him, or at herself. 'I thought I did, but the rhythm was faster than I expected and I kept stumbling and stepping in the wrong direction and on people's toes. I should have just laughed it off and apologised and smiled nicely, and it would probably have been forgiven and forgotten – I realise that now – but instead I became flustered and stumbled even more and then I felt like I couldn't breathe and I just had to get away.'

Netyarë closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths of fresh night air. Curufinwë watches with fascination the colour on her cheeks and her long eyelashes and her hair where small white flowers are woven in between brown curls, and he doesn't know what to say.

When Netyarë speaks again it is quietly, her eyes on the wide silver sky above them. 'Most of the time I manage to pretend that I belong, taking cues from people around me for the right behaviour and staying silent and smiling when I don't know what to say. But there are moments when I feel like I am again the little girl I used to be, hiding behind my mama's skirts when great lords and ladies in silks and circlets and glittering jewels came to my parents' shop... and I fear that everyone else will see that girl too, who has now got herself into a place where she does not belong.'

'You're wrong', says Curufinwë fiercely, and he is fiercely aware of the golden circlet on his head, the rings on his fingers and the gemstones on the collar and sleeves of his brocade robes. 'You belong here, even if you once were that little girl. You have earned your place by your talent, by your hard work.'

Along with hints of gratitude and relief there is still some suspicion in her gaze when he speaks nicely to her. Apparently she still finds it a little difficult to believe his words of praise sincere; his cruel aspersions in the first conversation between the two of them left deep marks in her that he has not yet quite managed to heal.

Curufinwë finds that it is very important to him that she believe him now. 'I told you before that your frescoes in the council hall made an impression on me, and recently I've been looking at what you are painting in my mother's studio. It is... intriguing. Even though it is one of your first attempts in a new way of painting, isn't it? A more abstract work than before.'

'Yes, it is. It's an experiment more than anything else, one that your mother is very kind to allow me to do on her wall. And it is not even finished yet', she says, still a little disbelieving.

'Even if it's not perfect, or ready, it is already powerful. Like those sculptures of my mother's that one cannot tell what they are supposed to depict, but can imagine a thousand things.'

'Oh. I - thank you.' She is more taken aback by his praise than she ever was by his cruelty. 'You have done some exceptional work yourself. Nerdanel has shown me many objects of different kinds that you've created. She's very proud of you.'

Now this is just embarrassing, for a grown man to be told that his mother is proud of him, so he changes the subject slightly. 'She would be very proud of us for getting along as well as we are tonight, even complimenting one another. Or alternately she would think that we both have a head injury.'

He is stupidly proud of himself when she now bestows on him her real smile, the warm and glorious one. And he wonders, _Why do I keep track of her smiles?_

'Fortunately the only injuries sustained at this party tonight are the bruised toes of my dance partners', Netyarë says.

'I'm sure they'll recover', Curufinwë says lightly. 'You're not wearing steel-capped boots, are you?'

Netyarë sticks her feet out from under her gown, showing him her slippers of fuchsia silk. 'No, I'm wearing this highly impractical footwear that cost practically half my commission from your grandfather.'

For some reason he is quite affected by the sight of the little slippers, and grateful when they disappear under the hem of her dress again.

'I should like to ask you for a favour', Netyarë says. Curufinwë stiffens, disappointed; is this how it will be now that he has shown her some kindness? She will seek to benefit from him? This is exactly why he doesn't make a habit of being generous.

'Just a little one, and you can refuse.' She takes a deep breath and looks at him straight on and he can see no dissembling in her grey eyes, no calculating look, no helplessness with which she would try to appeal to his barely existent chivalry. Just her, her wit and pride and humour. 'Will you teach me the steps to the dance?'

Well, he had certainly not expected this. Netyarë continues, 'I've seen you dance, I know you're a good dancer, and I don't think I need much help to master the steps.'

'Do you mean – to teach you now? Here?' He looks around them, at the rose bushes and the soft grass under their feet, and he thinks that this is one favour that he is not loath to grant.

'Can you do it without music?'

'Of course. I've had to listen to Macalaurë all my life; I have enough music stuck in my head to dance any number of dances.' He looks at her questioningly, and after she nods, bows to her and takes her hand. He starts humming softly and leads her into the starting position.

Learning the steps is harder than Netyarë had expected, because when she asked him to teach her she had not thought that his touch, his closeness, would have such a strong effect on her. She tries to keep her head from spinning as he leads her slowly through the dance, murmuring instructions and counting steps in between his surprisingly melodious humming, stepping aside for a second and then back to her when she is supposed to switch partners.

To Curufinwë, touching Netyarë is more distracting than her mere presence ever was, yet it makes him feel elated like the light honey-coloured wine the Vanyar produce that never makes one nastily drunk but instead to feel as if one is walking among Varda's stars. To his relief Netyarë seems to be similarly affected, more colour rising to her cheeks and her hand trembling ever so slightly in his, so she probably doesn't notice his odd state of mind.

When the dance comes to an end and he bows to her again, he lets go of her hand with simultaneous feelings of regret and relief.

'Thank you', Netyarë says, a little breathy. 'I think I've got it now. You're a surprisingly good teacher.'

'A compliment and an insult in one sentence, how economical of you.' But there is no anger in his voice, only a smile.

'That is how we deal with each other, is it not?'

'So it is. Shall we go in now?' Before he can think about it he offers her his arm again. 'So you can get back to charming pompous fools to commission you to paint their over-decorated halls.'

After only a second's hesitation she sets her hand on his arm. 'Should be easy enough after walking in on the arm of a prince.'

And it is better to openly reappear together with Curufinwë, she tells herself, in case someone saw the two of them alone in a quiet spot in the garden. To sneak back separately would invite gossip.

This she says to herself so that she doesn't have to think about how much she enjoys the warmth of him that she feels through his sleeve, or about how his tall strong form beside her thrills her.

* * *

He does not ask her to dance with him after their dance practice in the garden, and she does not angle for his dances. But whenever they meet at society events or at his home, they keep trading light-hearted barbs, sharp enough to make an impact but not to hurt, and he keeps seeking out her company, and falling into discussion together becomes a habit. Somehow they never seem to lack for topics that both are interested in yet disagree on, to some degree at least, so all their conversations end up rather heated.

Netyarë finds that she very much enjoys sparring with Curufinwë now that he has laid aside his most cruel words and always treats her as an equal. He is smart and quick and makes her laugh, sometimes against her better judgement, at the outrageous and insightful things that he says. And when she manages to make him smile that wicked grin of his, it feels as good as trumping his arguments does.

Happy with the way things are between them, for a time she does not think about why he continues to start conversations with her; probably he finds them as exhilarating as she does.

Then one day in the middle of one of their passionate conversations, or arguments as some might call them, this time about the relationship between beauty and function in objects, Netyarë realises that the fire in his eyes when he speaks with her is not the same fire that is there when he is arguing with his brothers, as she has seen him do many times.

 _Oh._

And then, _I wonder if he realises._ A quick look at him reassures her that he looks just as before. _Probably not yet._

Her realisation discombobulates her, and she loses track of her arguments and Curufinwë gets an easy win – their conversations are still competitions, though less serious now.

As he smirks triumphantly at her, she thinks that she doesn't really mind losing to him occasionally because he is so beautiful when he grins with his steel-blue eyes full of joy.

For a while things continue as they have been, although Netyarë is filled with a new excitement and restlessness now that she believes that sooner or later something will happen that will overthrow the sharp-tongued friendship she and Curufinwë have formed. But she is not quite certain of anything yet, so she watches and waits and enjoys his company and his words.

Some of their heated discussions happen while several members of his family are present. Curufinwë's brothers shake their heads and smirk at one another, Nerdanel smiles a little to herself and Fëanáro looks thoughtful, but Curufinwë and Netyarë don't even notice, so focused are they on each other.

* * *

One morning when Curufinwë is starting work together with his father, Fëanáro suddenly decides he has had enough of the mess their workspace had descended into and declares that they will spend the day organising and cleaning. This is always how it goes at the family smithy and workshop of which Fëanáro and Curufinwë are the principal occupants: periods of feverish creative chaos interspersed with bouts of rigorous orderliness.

For hours they labour in silence, and in harmonious rhythm as always; ever since Curufinwë was a child the two of them have never got in each other's way or stepped on one another's toes. They disagree frequently, violently and loudly, but once they have resolved their differences they work together in fluid accord, communicating in few words or without words, anticipating the other's actions.

Working with his father is far from easy – Fëanáro is not an easy man, and because he knows that his fifth son is capable of accomplishing much, he expects and demands even more of him – but Curufinwë has always felt that it is simple, in a way. Just like what he sees in the mirror is close to what he sees when he looks at his father, he can understand the way Fëanáro thinks even when they disagree, for it is only another facet of what Curufinwë's own thoughts are made of.

They are close to finishing their tidying up when Fëanáro suddenly starts a conversation on a surprising topic.

'I've noticed you've been getting along better with your mother's protégé lately.' Fëanáro is wearing an unusually mild expression as he sorts various little bits and pieces into bowls. 'You seem to be enjoying your discussions with her. I'm glad you have discovered that conversing with an intelligent woman is one of life's great pleasures.'

Curufinwë stacks moulds with unnecessary force. 'You are the only one I have heard call her intelligent. Everyone else thinks she's so very sweet.' He no longer says the word 'sweet' in a voice that drips venom, but his tone is a little troubled.

'A person can be both intelligent and sweet. You and I are not', and Fëanáro glances at his son with a sarcastic smile that Curufinwë knows is an exact match for the one he often assumes, 'but your mother is, for example.'

Curufinwë expects his father to continue talking to him about Netyarë, perhaps to tell him to not spend too much time with her, but no warning, subtle or unsubtle, comes. Fëanáro appears content to finish their day in companionable silence. His mood seems to be as mellow now as it ever is, after the morning's burning need for order and the frenetic organising that followed.

So Curufinwë relaxes too and muses on taking the right steps. He wonders how you know which ones they are, how not to misstep and fall, for he is slowly coming to realisations. Of why he ran after Netyarë when she was upset, why he keeps seeking her out, why he keeps track of her smiles.


	6. Words without edges

_**Chapter summary:** Curufinwë and Netyarë discover that for an important little while, they can have a conversation in words without sharp edges._

* * *

 **Chapter VI / Words without edgs**

On a rainy spring morning Curufinwë does not go to the smithy but instead stays at home reading a treatise on new methods in metallurgy. Nerdanel mentioned at breakfast that Netyarë would be coming by later to model for her, and that is when Curufinwë decided that he would stay in.

He can finally admit to himself that the prospect of seeing Netyarë is enough to make him change his plans, but this is a good day to stay out of the forge anyway because it is one of those rare occasions when Tyelcormo chooses to join his father and brothers at the smithy instead of gallivanting in the woods. And Tyelco may be Curufinwë's favourite brother, but he is terrible company when working: distractingly garrulous when all is well and then very short-tempered when something goes wrong.

So concentrating on any important work in the smithy would be impossible anyway, and he lets his family think that this is the reason he is spending his day reading.

Not that concentrating on the treatise alone at home is easy either. Curufinwë keeps listening for Netyarë's footsteps, as he hopes to waylay her and exchange a few words before she goes to Nerdanel's studio. But he should really read while he waits.

Curufinwë closes his eyes for a moment, rubs his temples and gathers his willpower to focus on the words in front of him. He is somewhat successful, but his concentration is broken again only minutes later by his mother who approaches him looking very harassed.

'Atarincë dear, I have to go out to meet the twins' tutor. I have received a very angry message from him that one of the Ambarussar had spread glue on his chair – that is, the tutor's chair, not your brother's – and the other propped a pot of ink on top of the door... He doesn't know which one did which.'

'Doesn't really matter, does it?' says Curufinwë as he hides a smile. He had had the same tutor, a stuffy old bore. The twins' pranks sound very elementary – he had come up with more devious schemes himself – but quite effective. 'I'm impressed that he managed to send you a message with ink in his eyes and his robes glued to his chair.'

'Apparently he made Ambarto write it, and I must say, I am really not impressed with how little his penmanship has improved recently.' Nerdanel is wrapping herself in a heavy scarf and cloak, for it is still raining outside.

'Then it's not much of a pity if you have to find another tutor, is it?'

This does not seem to bring much consolation to his long-suffering mother. 'I will be late for my meeting with Netyarë. You will make sure that the servants offer her refreshments and show her to a warm room while she waits for me?'

'Of course, mother.'

Nerdanel goes, muttering about how having young twin sons is more than twice the trouble. Curufinwë does not go to give instructions to the servants. Instead he moves to the entrance hall to continue his reading there, and greets Netyarë himself when she arrives.

Curufinwë sends word to the kitchen to have some wine and fruits brought to them and leads Netyarë to the sitting room at the back of the house. He adds more firewood to the merry fire blazing in the hearth, as Netyarë's clothes are damp in spite of the cloak she had been wearing. They take seats in front of the fireplace and watch out the window as rain falls in the garden that is a riot of colours, the bright green leaves of spring and early-blooming flowers in countless clashing hues.

'Ever since I first saw your garden I have thought that your mother must have planned it, or chosen the colours at least', says Netyarë with a smile.

'She did, and it is a mess, isn't it? Father is always threatening to get rid of half the colours. He never gets around to doing it, though.'

They admire the garden for a moment longer, and then after a maid has brought the food and wine they start arguing about the aesthetics of chaos and order. In the middle of laying out her second argument Netyarë realises that Curufinwë isn't listening, he is just staring at her. And not even into her eyes, as he sometimes does to try to playfully intimidate or confuse her, but somewhere below her eyes. Netyarë lifts a hand and tries to feel if she has a spot of paint on her chin.

To ease her sudden self-consciousness, or to move it to him, she says, 'You look even stranger than usually. What it is now?'

'I want to kiss you.'

 _Finally._ She hadn't wanted to be the one to say it first; it would have made him far too smug. And, in the name of honesty, she must admit to herself that she has been scared, too; scared that in spite of everything she has seen in his eyes he does not feel as she does.

Curufinwë had fully expected her to be appalled by his words, and now that she seems completely unsurprised he is shocked and speechless, instead.

'I see', Netyarë says after a moment. 'Well, are you going to?'

'I – you – why aren't you calling me impertinent and slapping me?' Curufinwë now regrets that he lost control and bared his feelings in a very inelegant way.

Netyarë thinks that it is delicious to see him lost for words, but to gloat now would be a sour start for this new phase in their relationship. So she says, 'Because I would rather kiss you, too, than slap you', and smiles at him with genuine happiness.

'Oh.'

Curufinwë gets up from his chair and Netyarë stands up too. Her head only comes up to his chin, so she has to look up at him as always, but this time not much, for he bends his head down to her.

'I wonder if sparks will fly out', she says softly, and he can feel the words as much as he can hear them, little shocks that travel down his body.

He takes a deep breath, then is mortified by it for a split second until the mortification is drowned out by the exhilaration and desire coursing through him like the wild rivers of springtime. 'Let's see if they will.'

They both move closer and meet each other halfway, feather-light at first. Then sparks do fly out and they are wrapped in flame, in each other.

* * *

Only a little later Nerdanel comes home and to the door of the garden-side sitting room, unwrapping a damp scarf from around her head. She opens her mouth to speak a greeting, then closes it at once when she sees the two figures on a settee.

Netyarë is sitting in Curufinwë's lap, their foreheads together and their hands in one another's hair. For once, they are speaking quietly, whispering words with no sharp edges yet carrying more weight than anything they have said to each other before.

Nerdanel backs away as silently as she can, smiling to herself, and goes to finish the statue of Netyarë that she decided weeks ago would not be part of the seasonal collection but a gift for Curufinwë.

* * *

Curufinwë and Netyarë stay in the sitting room for a long time as the rain continues to spatter against the windows and the fire in the hearth eventually burns itself out untended. But they do not get cold because they keep as close together as they can, touching all the time. They learn the shape of each other's faces with their lips and fingers, as they already had learned with their eyes over the long time that it took them to come to understand that the person they best liked arguing with was the person they would best like loving.

And all the while – well, all the while when they are not too busy kissing – they speak of their love, and then their future. Betrothal, wedding, married life. Little by little their conversation becomes less tender and more like their usual sharp-tongued manner of talking to one another.

Curufinwë is impatient, wanting everything at once now that he knows what it is that he wants, and Netyarë is not particularly interested in waiting either.

'But we must be engaged for one year at least, it is the custom', Netyarë reminds him as she gently unravels one of the small braids that has been keeping his hair back. 'Our families would be upset if we did not adhere to it.'

'I will allow a year, and not a day more. And the betrothal feast will be as soon as can be arranged.' He speaks very firmly and squeezes Netyarë a little for emphasis. And because she is so lovely to touch, and he is finally allowed to.

'We are not even officially betrothed yet and you are already behaving like a tyrant.' She takes the now-freed strand of his hair between her fingers and pulls, just hard enough to make him wince a little. 'I must warn you that I do not intend to be a very obedient wife.'

'That is for the best, I believe, for it would be a nasty shock for me if you were.'

Netyarë tries to look outraged but the wicked grin full of happiness on his lips is just too much, and she has to cover it with her own lips. They kiss for a long time, savouring the tastes and sensations that are quickly becoming familiar but no less wonderful for it, until Curufinwë shifts restlessly. Netyarë breaks the kiss and gets off his lap, fearing that his thighs are getting tired, and sits next to him on the settee. He lifts his arm and she scoots under it and leans against him.

Curufinwë kisses the top of her head, then takes her right hand in his. He needs to concentrate on something else besides the wonderfulness of her body for a moment.

'I will make you the most beautiful rings you have ever seen', he says, studying her fingers with professional interest, already envisioning in his mind the silver and gold bands that he will give her.

A mischievous little smile appears on Netyarë's face even as she enjoys his touch and her heart is warmed by his words. 'And I will commission for you rings that I can afford, whatever they are like.'

He raises his gaze to her eyes, genuine horror in his. 'In the name of the Valar, you wouldn't make me wear inferior craftsmanship, would you? If you love me like you say you do', and he is very serious now, in genuine distress, and Netyarë doesn't know whether she wants to laugh at him or comfort him, 'please, my dear heart, ask my father or even one of my brothers if they will make the rings for you. The gold, at least – I can perhaps tolerate a shoddily-made silver ring for one year, but the gold is for eternity.'

'Yes, my love, it is for eternity', she says gently, and reaches up to kiss him softly. 'Of course I would not make you suffer like that. I will ask your father, and if he refuses, well, then we know that you're not his favourite son after all.'

With Netyarë's teasing words, the calmness and gentleness she had just brought back between them disappears again, and this is how it will always be between the two of them: tender moments alternating with their very own brand of impudent directness. Those who do not know them wonder at it, but Curufinwë and Netyarë know it to be the way they best understand each other.

'I used to think that love was a thoroughly gentle thing, an accord or harmony of spirits. Maybe that is why I did not seek it like many young men do – it did not sound like something that would suit me, or something that I was even capable of.' Curufinwë strokes the back of Netyarë's neck lightly, a caress which, he has already learned, will make her tremble and let out exquisite little noises. 'We spend more time insulting each other than speaking syrupy compliments.'

'And it suits you better, and me too, though I would not have thought so before I met you.' Netyarë's voice is more than a little breathy. 'I think that each love must be like the two people who share it. Ours is both sharp and sweet.'

'That's funny.' He sniffs her hair, and she gives him a puzzled look. He explains, 'Sharp and sweet is what I call your scent in my mind. It's like lemons and strawberries.'

'I use soap perfumed with lemon and strawberry, says Netyarë, smiling a little at his words.

'There's that mystery solved, then.' His face buried in her hair, Curufinwë sighs. 'I suppose we must, at some point soon, leave this room and go tell our news to our families. Before one of my parents, or worse, one of my innumerable brothers, walks in and finds us like this.'

'Your breath is tickling me', Netyarë says but does not push him away, lifting a hand to pet his hair instead. 'Yes, I suppose we must go. But not just quite yet. It's so lovely here. Let's have a few moments more together.'

'A few moments more now', Curufinwë agrees, 'and in a year, forever.'


	7. Congratulations and celebrations

_**Chapter summary:** Curufinwë has often thought that having six brothers is a trial, and he expects to think that again once his brothers find out about his engagement._

 _ **A/N:** This chapter and the next are 'bonus chapters' that I wrote after having good feedback on this story on Archive of Our Own. They differ in pacing from the rest of the story but I did enjoy writing them. After the two bonus chapters there is only a short epilogue left._

* * *

 **Chapter VII / Congratulations and celebrations**

Nerdanel is delighted but utterly unsurprised when they go, hand in hand, into her studio to tell her that they are in love and have made a promise of betrothal. She embraces them both and tells them that she is very happy that they finally saw that their happiness lay in each other. She also reminds them that they must go and tell Netyarë's parents and Fëanáro also, and soon, as to do otherwise would be disrespectful.

'We will tell them all today', says Curufinwë. 'We just came to you first because you were here at home.'

'And I am honoured to be the first to know and give my blessing to you. May the Valar also grant their blessings to your love.' Nerdanel glances at their hands, still entwined, and smiles beatifically; nothing makes her happier than seeing her children happy. 'Netyarë dear, if your family can spare you, we would be very glad to have you join us for dinner tonight. I could send word to Carnistir and Macalaurë and they could come with their wives, and we could all congratulate you two. In fact, if your family would like to join us, they would be very welcome too. We could meet them for the first time.'

Netyarë is touched but says that her family would probably prefer to have a little time to accustom themselves to her sudden betrothal and to get to know Curufinwë before meeting his whole family. 'And to prepare before meeting you all', she adds after a moment, looking a little awkward.

Nerdanel takes her former protégé and future daughter-in-law by the hand for a moment, the one that Curufinwë isn't clasping, and says kindly, 'Of course, my dear. Whenever you think is best.' She had seen the way Netyarë fiddled with the skirts of her simple wool dress self-consciously and inferred, correctly, that Netyarë is a little worried about bringing her parents, unused to associating socially with the aristocracy, to Fëanáro and Nerdanel's palatial house at such short notice.

'Perhaps in a few days' time.', Netyarë says. She glances at Curufinwë. 'We are going to see them next. But I will gladly come back for dinner tonight.'

Curufinwë nods. 'And I'll stop by the smithy on my way back home and tell father.' He cannot deny that he is nervous, and he is not certain whether it is more because of meeting Netyarë's parents or because of telling his father.

As almost always, his mother knows what he is thinking even though he tries to conceal it. She says, 'Your father will be delighted. And not all that surprised.' As Nerdanel had not been. 'Now go', she shoos them away gently. 'You have a lot of things to do today, many parental blessing still to gain. Take a thick cloak, Atarincë, it's still raining.'

* * *

As Curufinwë prepares for dinner that night he muses that the day could not have gone much better. He and Netyarë had confessed their love to each other, agreed to marry and spent a couple of very pleasant hours together, talking and touching and kissing; they had told their parents, and gained both families' blessings; and he is going to see her again in an hour's time. The fact that it will be in the company of his entire family this time does little to dim his joy.

He is feeling so… light, weightless. And like he is full of light. He never imagined that he could feel like this, or feel this much without worrying about it. Admittedly from time to time he thinks about something that is a little concerning – the suddenness of it all, the ever so slightly disquieted expression Netyarë's father wore even as he shook Curufinwë's hand and graciously gave his blessing, the hint of wistfulness in his own father's gaze as he did the same.

But then he only needs to remember the radiance in Netyarë's eyes when he first said out loud that he adores her, the softness of her lips, the feeling of her in his arms, small and strong and sweet and _his_ , and all the light returns to him.

Curufinwë smiles to himself all the while as he bathes, dresses with care and then sits in front of the mirror to braid his hair. Just as he thinks, _Perhaps I can persuade her to sneak out to the garden with me, just the two of us, just for a little moment of privacy,_ his pleasant reverie is broken by a knock on the door.

'Who is it?' he calls, though he guesses. The tone of his voice makes it clear that he neither expects nor approves of visitors at this moment.

'Your brothers, you devious beast.' Macalaurë's voice.

Curufinwë stands up, smooths his robe and steels himself. He had known this was coming.

He opens the door and three of his older brothers breeze in.

'Well, well, well.' Macalaurë is grinning like a cat. 'You finally figured it out, then.'

Curufinwë rolls his eyes and goes back to the mirror and tending to his hair as Macalaurë and Maitimo sit on the edge of the bed behind him and Tyelcormo goes to lean against the wall near the window and stares out to the ever-continuing rain.

'If that is your way of congratulating me on my betrothal, I thank you as gracefully as you expressed your congratulations, by asking: why are you here bothering me before dinner?' As Curufinwë speaks he adds silver beads to one small braid. He knows that silver looks good in his dark hair against his pale skin. _Gold would look good in Netyarë's brown tresses_ , he thinks, and resolves to make some gold ornaments for her so she does not always have to wear only flowers in her hair.

Maitimo has been giving Macalaurë a disapproving look for his snide words, and now the eldest brother looks at Curufinwë and says warmly, 'You do have our congratulations, Curvo. We are all happy for you.'

Macalaurë nods, no longer grinning but smiling, looking genuinely pleased for his brother. Tyelco says from his place at window, 'Yes, we are very happy.' But he sounds less exuberant is usual for him, and he is still staring at the rain.

'I have to say, with its inauspicious beginning your and Netyarë's love story is unlike any song I have ever heard', Macalaurë muses. 'Perhaps I need to make a new song.'

Curufinwë rolls his eyes, but he knows that Macalaurë means it as a compliment of sorts – he can at times act infuriatingly superiorly with his younger brothers, especially when it comes to matters of the heart, but he never jests about writing songs. And he spoke with a lot of affection in his expressive voice.

'Speaking of love stories, where have you left your wife, Cáno? Has she finally tired of you?' Curufinwë inspects the braid he just finished and then unravels it and starts over when he deems it not neat enough.

'Mother took her to see a new dress she had bought or something like that.' Macalaurë yawns loudly.

As Curufinwë continues braiding his hair he can see in the mirror that Maitimo is also looking happy for Curufinwë, a gentle smile on his lips, but there is an ill-concealed deep-seated sadness in his eyes that Curufinwë remembers seeing there before. At their brothers' weddings, and every time Carnistir cannot keep from touching Tuilindien as he stands by her side at parties, when Macalaurë and Tinweriel look into each other's eyes while singing together, and most recently at cousin Turucáno's betrothal feast.

Curufinwë thinks Maitimo is in truth the most suited of them all to be a husband and a father. But he has not found a woman to share his life with, and it must be difficult for him, the eldest, to watch for the third time as one of his younger brothers falls happily in love while he is still alone.

Curufinwë wonders if he should comfort Maitimo in some way but he is not the kind of man to know how to do that, and he does not have that kind of a relationship with his eldest brother anyway. And Maitimo has his pride too, and would not appreciate even well-intentioned words of solace in front of others. Curufinwë hopes that Macalaurë or Nerdanel will see Maitimo's sorrow and say some words that help him, at some later time.

Curufinwë finishes the last braid and turns to his brothers. Tyelco still appears to find the view out of the window fascinating, Macalaurë is now stretched out on the bed with his eyes closed – no doubt he has been composing all night again – and Maitimo is quietly rearranging his own hair, the auburn braids having become a little bedraggled during the day.

'Well, you are a merry bunch', Curufinwë states drily. 'You'll have to cheer up or Netyarë might change her mind about joining our family.' He goes to a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of expensive liquor and four glasses. He pours a generous amount to each glass and takes one to each of his brothers, Tyelcormo last.

'I am truly happy for you', Tyelco says as Curufinwë joins him at the window. 'She is a perfect match for you.'

Curufinwë clinks his glass with Tyelcormo's. 'Thank you, brother. And I quite agree.' Since he is feeling unusually affectionate towards everyone on this day he puts his arm around Tyelco's shoulder, and they watch the rain together for a moment.

Curufinwë thinks of the sadness he sees in Tyelco's eyes, similar to Maitimo's but there for a different reason, Curufinwë believes. Tyelcormo delights in his freedom, his hounds and horses and hunting, and yearns not for a spouse. But possibly he is sad because things are changing. Curufinwë can feel the momentousness of this day in his whole being and knows that it will also affect the brother who is closest to him. But Tyelco really need not worry about losing him; Curufinwë would never allow that to happen, and Netyarë would not want it either, he is certain. But again words fail him and he does not know what to say for solace.

Macalaurë starts to snore melodiously in the background. Apparently the liquor had a further tiring effect on him. 'Would you poke him awake, Russandol', Curufinwë sighs. 'We should to go to dinner now.' He gives Tyelco a friendly slap on the back. 'Mother said she would have something especially good made for tonight.'

Macalaurë is awakened by a gentle shove from Maitimo who then pulls him up and leaves the room by his side, and Tyelcormo follows them. Curufinwë closes and locks the door behind Tyelco and then catches up to him.

As they make their way to where the rest of their family is congregated, Tyelcormo says with a little smile, 'We were gathered to dinner just like this once before, the seven of us with mother and father and Cáno and Moryo's wives and Netyarë, and you said to me in a very displeased way that not everyone present was family. And now you're making her family.'

'Well, I had to fix the situation, didn't I?' Curufinwë says with a smirk but as he sees Netyarë, already arrived and conversing with his parents, the smirk turns into a smile that shows his family and his beloved all the light inside him on this day.

* * *

When Nerdanel and Fëanáro lead their family into the dining room and Nerdanel points out the seats she has chosen for each one to avoid unnecessary squabbling, Curufinwë is at first not pleased with his assigned place. His married brothers are seated next to their wives, but he and Netyarë are shown to different sides of the table and not even directly opposite each other. Curufinwë understands that this is to allow Netyarë become better acquainted with his family by talking with as many of them as possible, but it still feels unfair.

Then again, being close to her sometimes causes fairly uncomfortable reactions in him that he would rather were not public. So sitting apart is probably for the best, in the end.

The first subject of discussion while they eat, once the congratulating and marvelling is over, is the formal betrothal feast. Curufinwë restates his demand that it be as soon as can be arranged. With a flicker of amusement on his face, his father accepts this but says that holding the feast soon must not mean that it is not held in a style appropriate to a prince of the House of Finwë and Fëanáro.

Curufinwë, and most others present, knows this to mean that Fëanáro intends to upstage Turucáno's recent betrothal celebration by throwing his own son the grandest feast imaginable.

'It will be at the palace, of course. As will the wedding.' Fëanáro glances at his future daughter-in-law to assess her reaction, and Curufinwë is proud to see Netyarë give an elegant little nod in response to his father, showing no surprise or dismay. Curufinwë had already warned Netyarë about this earlier – that their betrothal and wedding would not be small family events, but grand public spectacles that Fëanáro would use to flaunt to all of Tirion, and especially his siblings, the glory of his house.

(Netyarë had taken it in her stride. 'I know you are no simple, humble smith, and I would not wish you to be, for that would be a different person than the Curufinwë I love. And I think I am growing accustomed to wearing silk dresses and complicated hairstyles, for some of the time at least.')

Ideas for the celebrations start flying across the table, mainly from the women and Fëanáro as well as Maitimo who is well versed in etiquette. Curufinwë comments on some ideas and rejects others, but most of the times he simply watches his betrothed and feels pride, relief and happiness that his family seems to be accepting her so easily as one of their own. Then again it is no wonder, because she has been a frequent visitor in their house for a while now. And because she is so good at being sweet and nice as well a playful and witty.

The Ambarussar seem bored by the party planning conversation and decide to contribute their own comments on their brother's engagement.

'Has he told you that the first time you came to our house he said that you are not pretty?' Ambarto peeks at Netyarë and speaks very innocently. The twins' older brothers have for a while now suspected that the Ambarussar's appearance of childish innocence is becoming more of an act every day.

Curufinwë looks daggers at his youngest brother as Netyarë and everyone else at the table erupts into laughter. 'I did not say that!'

'Yes you did', pipes up Ambarussa in support of his twin.

Netyarë chuckles. 'That is quite interesting. But I did know that first day that you didn't like me', she says teasingly to Curufinwë.

Curufinwë sputters for a moment, knowing that if he takes issue with her statement it will only start an argument he would rather not have in front of his family. So he picks another battle. 'I never said that you were not pretty. All I said was that the twins are too young to judge a woman's beauty.'

' _We_ said that you are very pretty', Ambarussa explains, grinning widely at Curufinwë's discomfort.

'That is very kind of you', says Netyarë and bows her head gracefully to the twins. 'Perhaps I made a mistake choosing Curufinwë. Maybe I should have married one of you instead, as you two are so courteous.'

 _I love you so much_ , Curufinwë says to Netyarë with his eyes after Ambarussa and Ambarto's faces turn pale and horrified. They look at each other, scrambling for something to say.

'We're too young', says Ambarussa at the same time that Ambarto reminds Netyarë, 'You've already promised him, you can't change your mind.'

'I haven't _officially_ promised yet. And I could wait until you are a little older', says Netyarë pretending demureness, her gaze down and her voice coy. But Curufinwë can see the glint of laughter in her eyes.

The twins are still squirming in their seats, and Curufinwë decides to have mercy on them. In his most haughty voice he says to Netyarë, 'I shall hold you to your promise nonetheless. Pityo and Telvo, you will have to find your own brides. This one is mine.'

Netyarë raises her gaze and looks at him with her bright eyes full of love and laughter, and he sucks in a breath and reflects that it was indeed very wise of his mother to seat them apart. For if he was sitting next to her he surely couldn't keep from touching her, family or no family around them.

* * *

 _ **Notes:** Netyarë and Curufin's engagement and wedding parties will be planned mainly by Fëanor and Curufin who meticulously choose every detail to show their family in the best possible light, while Nerdanel and Netyarë get on with sculpting and painting like it's no big deal._

 _I thought at first about Curufin talking about his betrothal with all his brothers at once but I did not dare to write that because I'm pretty sure that I can't handle a conversation with seven active participants without my head exploding. Caranthir was neglected in this chapter, but he appears in the next._


	8. Fond wishes for the future

_**Chapter summary:** Curufinwë goes riding with Tyelcormo, has a surprising conversation with Carnistir and takes a walk with Netyarë. _

* * *

**Chapter VIII / Fond wishes for the future**

The wistfulness of Maitimo and Tyelcormo the previous night, Tyelcormo's especially, is in Curufinwë's mind when next morning he rises unreasonably early and goes to his favourite brother's door.

Tyelcormo opens the door after just one knock, already awake and dressed as Curufinwë knew he would be. He is apparently in the middle of taming his hair, for half of it is braided and the other half a tangled cloud by the side of his face.

'Curvo. I am surprised to see you so early.' But Tyelcormo seems pleased, and more pleased still when Curufinwë suggests that they abandon their responsibilities for the day and go riding together, saying that it has been too long since he got out of Tirion. And the rain has finally stopped.

When they ride out of the city gates Curufinwë reflects that though his principal reason for proposing this outing had been to cheer up Tyelco, it truly feels good to be headed out for a vigorous ride. He pats his horse's neck. Riding is the only one of the outdoor pursuits so beloved by Tyelco that Curufinwë enjoys too.

As they ride down the valley of Calacirya at a brisk trot to warm up their horses, Curufinwë keeps quiet, waiting for his brother to open a conversation. After a while Tyelcormo does.

'I bet Carnistir far too much that you and Netyarë would not get betrothed before the year is over. But I can't say I'm sorry I lost, since you look so happy now.' Tyelco is sounding more like himself today; perhaps the passing of one night has already helped him get accustomed to the changing situation.

'You bet against me getting things done? I can't say I'm sorry you lost, either, for you deserve it for not having faith in me.' Curufinwë speaks as lightly as Tyelco had, and observes his brother carefully as he speaks.

'You may be close to a genius in some matters, Curvo, but this was not one of them. You were oblivious for such a long time.' This is said in Tyelco's most good-natured way.

Curufinwë arranges his face into a suitable expression of disapproval for that insult.

Tyelcormo continues, just as amiably, 'I think that because you press down deep within yourself or dismiss with a sarcastic remark so much of what you feel, it is sometimes difficult for you to know what your actual feelings are.' He turns his face to the gentle west wind and closes his eyes for a moment, enjoying the message of spring that the breeze brings him.

'Are you saying that I should be more like you, turning from laughter to anger and back in the blink of an eye, or like Carnistir who allows himself to mope for days after something upsets him?' Curufinwë is a little taken aback by this serious topic of conversation. The two of them are close but rarely speak of matters like this.

'You know those are exaggerations.'

'Only slight ones.'

Tyelcormo shrugs. 'You don't have to take my words to heart. I just hope that at least when you are with your new lady you can let go and be honest with yourself, too.'

'What unexpected wisdom', Curufinwë says lightly, but he is uncomfortable with the depth of feeling in his brother's eyes. 'Did we come to ride or talk, Turco? Come on, I'll race you to the edge of that forest.'

And before his brother even agrees to the race Curufinwë has already spurred his horse to a gallop, but Tyelcormo knows him and is only one second behind.

* * *

Later in the same day, Curufinwë spends the evening by himself in the garden-side sitting room which has become his favourite place in the house since the rainy morning he spent there with Netyarë.

He promised her then that he would make her the most beautiful of rings, and now he is hard at work drawing designs to fulfil that promise. Utterly focused on the patterns he is sketching, he jerks his head back startled when a shadow suddenly falls on the parchment. There is a yelp of pain behind him and a swish of black hair and an unmistakable curse.

'Carnistir, you oaf, what are you doing sneaking up behind me like that?' Curufinwë stands up, pushes his papers to the far end of the table and scowls at his brother who is likewise scowling at him.

'I did not sneak, I even greeted you but you were so focused you heard nothing.'

'I was working.'

'On the rings.'

'Yes. Because I am to be engaged. Any other obvious facts you want to discuss?'

'No, that's the only one.' Carnistir takes a seat on a settee – the same settee that Curufinwë has very fond memories of – and rearranges the pillows on it to make himself comfortable.

Curufinwë gives him a disgusted look. 'Do you have nothing better to do tonight than to harass me?'

'No, I don't. Tuilindien is having dinner with an old scholar who is apparently an important fount of knowledge for her work. But his voice is enough to make me fall asleep on my food and she knows it, so she graciously told me to not come with her. For which I am very thankful.'

Curufinwë smiles a little despite himself, then goes back to the ring designs – no doubt Carnistir will keep distracting him, but he can at least sketch a few more bad options, if not any good ones.

'It's difficult in an unique way, is it not? Deciding what you want her to wear for you.' Carnistir's voice is free of mockery and full of thoughtfulness, and it makes Curufinwë lift his gaze to him. There is a new kind of kinship between them now, Curufinwë realises.

'I have a concept for the silver ring that I'm satisfied with, but the gold – it keeps slipping away from me', he confesses after a moment. 'I need it to be perfect. I need it to tell her… well, everything.'

'I told you that you would understand one day.' Carnistir is now looking less thoughtful and more jubilant.

Curufinwë doesn't understand what he is referring to and gives him a slightly confused and, just in case, very censorious look.

'When I was courting Tuilë, remember? You teased me and I grabbed you by the collar and told you that one day you would understand why I was doing the things I did.'

'Ah, I remember now. One of the many edifying occasions when you called me a horrible brat.'

'Stupid brat', corrects Carnistir. 'Anyway, I also told you that day that I would not lift a finger to help you court the girl you fell for. But you did not bother courting her in the end, did you? You went straight from complete obliviousness to being betrothed.'

Carnistir is feeling, and looking, extremely smug because he had indeed bested Curufinwë in this respect; his courtship of Tuilindien had not gone exactly smoothly, but at least he had realised he was in love as soon as he fell for the fair girl.

Carnistir continues, 'Netyarë must have taken the initiative in the end, I expect, or you would still be embarrassing yourself by –'

He is interrupted by Curufinwë throwing a small bronze statuette from the table at him. Curufinwë has good aim, but Carnistir catches the statuette. 'Careful. I made this for mother for her begetting day a few years ago.'

'Oh, I know it's one of your miserable attempts at statue-making. That's why I chose it to throw.'

'How childish of you, little brother.' Carnistir sets the statuette carefully on the chair next to him. 'Well, whichever of you two made the first move –'

'I did', says Curufinwë, unwilling to let Carnistir have the last word on this.

'– in any case, I am glad you two did not take any longer to realise that you will be happier when you can argue with each other all day every day. Since you became betrothed before the year's end, Tyelcormo now owes me quite a nice sum.'

'Yes, he told me. Very ill behaviour from you to bet on your brother's happiness, but I hardly expected anything better from you two wretches.'

Carnistir snarls a quiet warning. 'No need to call me names, I am the one who had faith in you. Tyelco thought it would take even longer.'

There is a wicked glint in Carnistir's eyes that Curufinwë knows he often has in his own but hates in anyone else's. 'I simply cannot believe that you are good enough at reading people to have guessed anything right. It must have been the only option Tyelco left you', he scoffs.

'You are right, I couldn't have guessed. But Tuilë did.'

Of course Tuilindien would have guessed, Carnistir's improbable gentle wife who has a similar way of quietly observing people as Nerdanel. 'You certainly married up', Curufinwë says contemptuously.

Luckily for Curufinwë, Carnistir knows the contempt is only for him and not his wife, or this time he would do worse than grab his brother by the collar. Unperturbed if a little flushed, he says, 'And now you are doing the same.'

Before Curufinwë has time to agree or disagree with this problematic statement (objectively, factually, societally speaking, he knows that he is of course above Netyarë – he is the king's grandson and her parents are merchants – but then again…) Carnistir continues in a softer voice, a voice he only ever uses when he speaks about his wife, 'It is not a bad position to find oneself in.'

Seeing his brother's honesty and voluntary vulnerability, Curufinwë lets himself show the same for once. 'No, not at all', he says quietly.

Carnistir glances aside, surprised and discomfited by Curufinwë's show of naked emotion; it is such a rare occurrence. 'Tuilë wants you and Netyarë to come to dinner at our house some day soon. She wishes to make Netyarë feel welcomed into the family, like Tinweriel did with her.'

'That sounds… very good, I'm sure Netyarë will appreciate it. Tell Tuilë we'll be happy to come.' Curufinwë thinks for a second. 'Maybe Macalaurë and Tinweriel should come too. The three of them, the women I mean, should get to know each other better since they are a group of sorts.'

'Of course. I'll arrange it', says Carnistir and somewhat abruptly wishes him good night and leaves.

As Curufinwë watches Carnistir's grey-clad form slip out of the room he thinks of what an unexpected side effect of getting engaged this is: gaining a new kind of appreciation for members of his own family.

* * *

The next morning Curufinwë stays at home long enough to meet Netyarë who is coming to pose for Nerdanel since the earlier modelling session had never happened due to Netyarë being too busy enjoying Curufinwë's words, kisses and touches.

As soon as Netyarë is shown into the house by a maidservant Curufinwë whisks her away to an empty room, pushes her gently against the closed door and kisses her until he is light-headed from lack of breath. Then he reluctantly lifts his lips from hers and whispers, 'Good morning', still keeping her within the circle of his arms.

'Good morning to you too', she says sounding just as out of breath as he is. 'It is a very good morning indeed now.' She touches his lips softly with her fingers but to Curufinwë's disappointment draws them away before he can kiss or lick them. 'I did come here to see your mother, not you, but I must say I am very glad you were here.'

'I needed to see you.' He considers lifting her in his arms and carrying her to the big armchair in this room – he had brought her to the downstairs library – to hold her in his lap there, but they do not really have the time, as regrettable it is. Nerdanel is expecting Netyarë and Fëanáro is waiting for Curufinwë to join him for a meeting about the betrothal feast.

So he nuzzles her neck for a moment, kisses it, then uses all his willpower to take two steps back. 'I needed to see you because I wanted to ask if you can go for a walk with me after you are done with the posing.'

'A walk?' She looks delightfully disoriented and flushed, her lips a bright shade of pink from their kiss. 'We have never gone for a walk before.'

'There are a lot of things we have never done but will.' He quirks a brow.

She laughs and blushes more. 'A walk is a good one to start with, I suppose. And I am free after your mother is done with me, I was just going to do some planning sketches for my next project. I can do that later.'

'Very good. I'll come to mother's studio when I'm ready to go.'

* * *

'So how have your brothers taken our engagement?' Netyarë asks.

Her hand on his arm, they are strolling along the street where Fëanáro and Nerdanel's house is located.

Curufinwë thinks of Maitimo's joy tinged with sadness, Macalaurë's happy, knowing grin, Tyelco's wish that Curufinwë would be able to relax his control over himself with Netyarë, Carnistir's combination of taunting jubilance and surprising solicitousness towards Curufinwë's bride and his soft tone when he spoke of marriage (Curufinwë knows that these last two must be Tuilindien's influence, for he cannot imagine his bad-tempered brother speaking thus before he met her).

And finally, he muses on the Ambarussar's attempts at embarrassing him at the dinner table. Those two should really have learned by now that they cannot outsmart him. Maybe they would realise it now that he has Netyarë at his side, and she is very adept at taking down overly arrogant boys when she wants to…

'Curufinwë?' Netyarë pats his arm. 'You did not answer my question, dearest. How have your brothers been?'

He could say something flippant about the six of them all teasing him, or he could be more earnest. He opts for something in between. 'My older brothers have been surprisingly decent; they seem to be happy for me. The twins were actually almost the worst. But you got back at them.'

'I feel a little bit bad for teasing them so – I did not expect them to be quite so horrified.'

'They are at an interesting age where they are both fascinated with and terrified by girls. But don't feel bad, they deserved it anyway. If not for what they said at dinner then for something else.'

'Hmm. I might have to take their side next time they tease you, just for balance.'

So much for her always coming to his defence.

After a moment's silence Netyarë says with a tone of suspicion, 'I feel like in the years to come, I might discover that you have some rather interesting views on child-rearing.'

'I have few firm principles on the subject, but I have found with the Ambarussar that there is little that cannot be accomplished by bribery, blackmail and threats.'

She sighs again and shakes her head in mock desperation. 'May the Valar bless any children we might have, for they will need it with you for a father.'

Curufinwë just grins. 'Speaking of fathers, how have your parents adjusted after our sudden announcement? Any concerns they did not want to mention in front of me?'

'Perhaps a few.' Netyarë thinks about telling him that her mother had asked whether she was sure that Curufinwë, proud son of a great family, was able to appreciate her full value and respect her. But Netyarë is certain that he is now, if not before, so she does not want to grieve him with that doubt. She tells him, 'It wasn't such a surprise to them as you and I thought. Apparently I had talked about you so much that they had guessed there was something special between us.'

It is his turn to sigh. 'Were we the last of all to know?'

' _You_ were'.

Curufinwë would protest this just on principle, but they have arrived where he was taking her, so he stops and points at the house in front of them. 'What do you think?'

'Of this house?' At his nod, Netyarë assesses the house. It is a grand mansion as all houses on this street, smaller than many of the others but opulent nonetheless, built of light grey marble and decorated with many carvings and statues. Far too many carvings and statues, in fact. There is a particularly hideous sculpture acting as a centrepiece for the fountain in front of the portico entrance. She has walked past this house before and thought it terrible.

'It is… you once described many of the lords who commission my paintings as fools who live in over-decorated halls. This is an over-decorated house.'

'I'm glad you agree with me. I think it is an eyesore, and my father has had words with the owner about it ruining the street.'

'Then why are we looking at it?' Netyarë frowns.

'Well.' He lets go of her arm and crosses his own arms on his chest, suddenly feeling infuriatingly nervous. 'It is in a good location, and the structural stonework beneath the tasteless decorations is very well-done. And the owner has recently moved to a larger house because of his growing family, so this house is for sale.'

'How many children does he have, two dozen?' Netyarë thinks that this conversation is bringing the differences in their experiences very clearly into the fore, for she thinks that this mansion is easily large enough for a family of any size.

'Just four.' Curufinwë knows what she is thinking. 'Beloved, this is the kind of house where you and I should live when we are married. After the hideous embellishments have been stripped away, of course.'

'You think you should buy this house.' She tilts her head and looks at it again, tries to imagine it without the decorations that ruin its clean lines and good proportions.

'Yes, I think we should buy it.' He chooses the pronoun quite intentionally; all that is his will be hers as well. 'We have a year to put it to rights. Carnistir is good at stonework, I can ask him to lead the work. Once it has been rid of all the horrors, my mother can make new statues, more tasteful ones', he looks at the fountain in disgust, 'and you can paint the walls.'

'I would like that: a whole house as my canvas. But if the house is as over-decorated inside as it is outside, one year will not be enough to fix all of it.'

'We can continue after we are married; I'm certain there is plenty of work that can be done while we are already living there. And you should not underestimate the efficiency of my family to get things done.'

'Oh, I wouldn't do that.' She looks around to make sure no passers-by are looking at them, then reaches up to press a quick kiss on his grinning mouth. Then she leans against his side, and he puts an arm around her and they look at the building in front of them together. 'Our house. I never expected to end up in a place like this, yet… with you here with me it feels surprisingly right.'

'It feels absolutely right.' Curufinwë hesitates but feels like he should ask. 'It is much closer to my parents' home than yours… does that bother you?'

'I will grow used to it, I am sure.' _It will be easier for me than it would be for you_ is what she thinks but does not say.

They stay there for a moment, thinking of nothing but pleasant thoughts of future. She thinks of working on things to make them more beautiful than they have ever been; that is her calling, her delight. He thinks of how he is starting to feel her happiness as well as his own as the connection between their _fëar_ grows stronger in anticipation to them being bound together a year from now.

This brings Maitimo to his mind again; Curufinwë has been thinking of him more these past few days than for a long time before.

'I wish my eldest brother could find someone', he says to Netyarë. She looks up at him and he bends down to kiss the tip of her nose. 'To care for.'

Netyarë thinks of Nelyafinwë, beautiful, strong-willed but mild-mannered, and always kind to her. 'Maybe I should introduce him to some of my friends. He has surely by now met all the high-born maidens of Tirion, and if none of them have caught his eye, perhaps a girl from the lower classes might.'

Curufinwë laughs. 'A strange idea, but quite logical. Maybe you should do that.'

'I have a lot of cousins too', she says, going through them in her mind. 'Although some of them are even shorter than me so they might need a box to stand on to kiss your ridiculously tall brother.'

Curufinwë smirks. 'I quite like that image. Do introduce them to him at our betrothal feast.'

'I will. But I think I should go home now', she says reluctantly. 'I need to start and finish this new commission of mine soon so I can begin planning the painting of our house.'

In Curufinwë's ears, _our house_ sounds almost as good as _my bride_. 'I'll walk you to your home.'

The walk there takes a long time, and not just because it is quite a long way to walk. They go slowly because they keep holding on to each other, and because neither of them wants to let go and say goodbye soon, even for a day or two.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** This story is almost over so I want to point out, especially because of one line in this chapter ('she thinks of working on things to make them more beautiful than they have ever been; that is her calling, her delight') that the name Netyarë means 'adorner' and I chose it because she is a fresco painter._

 _Now all that's left of this fic is the short epilogue._


	9. Epilogue: After-dinner work

_**Chapter summary:** Curufinwë and Netyarë settled into married life; one day a new evening ritual is cut short by his impatience. This is the epilogue and where the story ends._

 _ **A/N:** This is the last bit of this story! A fluffy, happy little epilogue that feels a bit unnecessary, and very short, after two long chapters of fluff. I hope you enjoy it anyway._

* * *

 **Chapter IX / Epilogue / After-dinner work**

After the first few days of their marriage have passed in a heady rush, they fall into shared routines so fast and so easily that they both marvel at it.

As neither of them likes to rise either particularly early or unusually late, they discover that it is easy to wake at the same time. Finding the right time to do so does take a few days, for at first they do not remember to allow any time for delays in leaving the bed and end up going to the day's work late, since they inevitably find each other's sleep-flushed forms irresistible.

They breakfast together in their kitchen, as the dining room is still unfinished. Curufinwë goes to work on it after Netyarë kisses him goodbye and goes to paint a commissioned mural in a lord's house nearby.

The day is spent pursuing the respective crafts they love, the midday meal of both a hurried thing eaten while looking at the work of their hands and planning for the next steps. They do not take a long break from work after their wedding. This lack of proper honeymoon certainly does not mean that they have less passion for each other than any other newlywed couple, but perhaps demonstrates that they understand one another's passion for craft and art better than most.

Instead, they attend fewer parties and gatherings for a while and see less of their families and friends; they are forgiven for this, though they hardly realise their negligence and do not remember to apologise for it. And if their working days are sometimes interrupted by thoughts or memories of bodies tangled up together, of moans smothered by fierce kisses or, simply, of shared laughter, their handiwork does not suffer enough for it that anyone could notice except Fëanáro, and he will stay silent this once because he can see how happy his son is.

Coming home for dinner is sweeter than ever before for both Netyarë and Curufinwë and coming home to the house that belongs to just the two of them feels natural from the first, since for the whole year of their betrothal they dreamed, planned and worked on making it their beautiful home.

Sometimes their dinner is eaten when it is already cold, because other demands their bodies make take precedence, and sometimes it is eaten in bed or with her sitting in his lap. (This is the great merit of Netyarë's petite stature, Curufinwë has realised: how easy it is to hold her, to keep embracing her even as they do something else at the same time. As for her, she has always wished for the tall and elegant figure that is considered the most beautiful among their people, but now that wish is disappearing rapidly. There is no place better than within her husband's arms.)

After dinner they like to work for a little while again, to plan and design or write up notes of the work completed on that day. They labour in silence, but next to each other.

One night a few weeks after their wedding Curufinwë is overcome by a strange feeling as he and Netyarë sit at opposite sides of a table, both scribbling on parchment. He is calculating ideal proportions for a new kind of throwing spear Tyelcormo wants to try making, and she is drawing preliminary coal sketches for a large fresco that she will paint in their dining room once her current commission is finished.

The strange feeling is happiness, Curufinwë realises. This is what pure happiness feels like. With his impatient and irritable nature he rarely experiences it. But now, at this moment, he is exactly where he wants to be, and he feels nothing that he needs to push aside or bury deep inside him. All that he feels is good and right.

At first the happiness fills him with a sense of serenity, but then, as he steals glances at her lithe fingers flying across the parchment and her lustrous hair that has escaped its confines so she has to flick it away from her face every now and then, the serenity fades and is replaced by desire. Calm between the two of them never lasts long.

Curufinwë's concentration on his calculations has vanished, and he lays aside his quill and breaks the silence.

'This is lovely, sitting here with you, both of us working.'

Netyarë looks up, distracted but smiling. 'Yes, it is. Lonely work is better when you are with someone whose company you enjoy, even if all you do is share the space.'

He stands up, walks around the table and takes her hand, her left one where there are slightly fewer coal smudges. 'Let's go to bed.'

She is happy to get up at once to go with him but as she rises from her chair she says, laughing, 'This is lovely so you want to end it to do something else? You really are a contrary creature.'

'Yet you married me', he says. He leads her into a few steps of the dance he taught her, then sweeps her into his arms to carry her to their bedchamber. 'And you really should have learnt by now that the nature of this contrary creature is such that whatever he likes doing with you, he likes taking you to bed best of all.'

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Thank you for reading, and especially warm thanks to those who have reviewed! Reviews are still very welcome.  
_

 _There are three sequels for this story that have been posted on this website, and you can find them via my profile._

 _One is a K+-rated one-shot called A name of foresight, and it is a combination of fluff and angst that takes place just after Celebrimbor/Tyelperinquar's birth._

 _The second is a 4-chapter angstfest called Burning out, a M-rated (mainly to be on the safe side, I believe it's very mild for M) exploration of Netyarë and Curufin's marriage slowly breaking apart in the leadup to the exile of the Noldor._

 _The third one is a T-rated one-shot called Her unwilling presence. It's an angsty exploration of Curufin and Celegorm's thoughts in Beleriand when Celegorm falls in love with Lúthien and this causes Curufin to think of his own now-twisted feelings for Netyarë._


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